


Too Much

by Aezlo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Was Raphael (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Guardian Demon Crowley (Good Omens), Genderfluid Character, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Neurodivergency, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Self-Harm, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Soft TM, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Newton Pulsifer, True Forms, but they're trying man, safe wording, terrible communication skills between these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2020-11-22 10:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 229,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aezlo/pseuds/Aezlo
Summary: It's over a year since the Apocalypse-That-Didn't, and Crowley cracks under the pressure of well, being himself and having sensory issues as well as dealing with all of the fun stuff that's happened with the Apocalypse.Aziraphale and Crowley try to find their way together, carefully, and mess up a lot, but maybe eventually they'll get their happily-ever-after.What if there's bumps in the road to getting together? What if there's trauma to unpack, and bad coping mechanisms to untangle, and then there's just LIFE, it just keeps happening and you just keep getting tugged along, and maybe y'all can get a little closer to the dream if you idiots work together?!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see if I can summarize things a little better, 'cause maybe you're a little leery of a fic THIS large and I totally understand.  
The character tableau is as such:  
Crowley - dysphoric, genderfluid, demisexual with excess trauma, sensory processing issues, and depression to boot  
Aziraphale - gender-what's-gender?/gay, very sexual, anxious and bad at communication  
Their embodiment is stable and unchanging, but they both have what I'd term "queer" bodies due to their own preferences.  
This story is VERY Crowley centric, though we do dip into Aziraphale's brain a few times. 
> 
> Additional plot hooks:  
-True forms! Names and identities which may be different from what you expect!!  
-Limbo is a thing and what happens to human souls once they pass, huh?  
-How're Heaven and Hell dealing with what happened?  
-Adam is still the anti-christ, what's up with that? And what about Warlock?  
-Newt is trans (sorry they'll always be trans for me, I guess!)
> 
> The story's explicit because there IS sex and a teensy bit of violence.
> 
> Please let me know if you need anything additional tagged/etc.

It’s the end of the world, but then, thank Someone, it’s not. Aziraphale is gone forever, all that’s left is burning lungs and a singed book of prophecy, but then, no, he’s right there, a little watery maybe, and demanding he hightail it to Tadfield airbase. Then, they’re holding hands, waving and smiling wanly at their bosses, being the godfathers they’d meant to be for Warlock, but for the _real_ antichrist, and it is really getting to be too much for poor Crowley. He can take a lot, _so much_, but he’s got limits you know, and he’s so bloody exhausted all of the time.

Before the not-apocalypse, Crowley spent nearly eight years penciled into a skirt and forced to be one gender, one role, and one presentation for far, far longer than could be comfortable. Crowley flexes and flows, a little all over the place, bleeding outside of the lines always. He couldn’t be that with Warlock on his knee, the men of the house leering and leaning their fleshy selves over his and asking _just a little kiss, love_, so good with children, _imagine how she is in bed, _leering behind their pulpy fists_. _Some days Nanny’s smiles look like marble, and it’s all Crowley can do to not to spook them with a bit of flash and fire.

He didn’t allow himself to drink through that whole period because he could feel it prickling under his skin: if he started, he wouldn’t stop. It would be the Spanish Inquisition all over again, Aziraphale stuffing him forcibly back into his skin. Crowley probably won’t be able to stand drinking tonic water for another few centuries after a decade of forced absolution, but he grits his teeth, and maybe some days he’s completely scales from the neck down, but Nanny Ashtoreth wore quite a lot of layers (slip, hose, gloves, hat, glasses, lipstick) so no one had to know but him.

Life just doesn’t stop, though, it’s just one blessed day after another. After raising Warlock, doting and cajoling, they’re on the run again, Crowley desperately trying to keep himself in one piece when all that he terribly wants to do is sleep, or maybe caress Aziraphale’s curls, drown in his eyes, but oh he can’t do that. So, he mists his plants, scalds himself in the shower, and then plummets into bed but never for long.

Crowley cracks enough to say, “Angel, come away with me,” not once, not twice, _why is it never enough?_ But Aziraphale toes the line and says no, like he should. He’s so Good, so much better than Crowley ever was, or ever could be, and it almost hurts worse than the fall. Crowley’s a mess of shards on the tarmac, but they make it, and somehow, they limp back to his flat, and each go off to their merry trials in each other’s shoes. It’s horrible, but Crowley’s a great actor, and he blows off a little steam singeing some righteous archangels.

Aziraphale seems so _blessedly_ unaffected by the whole damn thing, he seems frankly giddy. They have lunch dates and dinner dates and brunch dates, picking-up-ancient-tomes dates, I-just-thought-the-weather-was-nice dates. Crowley is _just trying to get some damn sleep in_, _angel_, but the principality is suddenly very insistent that they meet at least two or three times a week to eat, and talk, and just enjoy each other’s company. Part of him deep down is cackling madly because of the long periods in the single digit centuries where he’d pine for just a glimmer of the angel on the horizon and now, _now? _He’s stumbling over his bloody tartan and brogues every day it seems like.

Crowley is vibrating wildly as he walks jerkily down the street to the park where his angel is waiting, feeling rather a lot of everything because… well, he’s always been too sensitive, honestly. Flinching away from light, and touch, and certain foods. He’s so turned up today that he can feel the tool of the businessman’s pants as he walks past him even with the space between them. The smell of the vendor selling fried things is nauseating, and he can see Aziraphale now, sitting on the lip of the fountain looking positively beatific. He’s holding a newspaper full of cheap wrapped chips, grease and salt staining his fingers, and waggling his fingers in that magic-trick manner at a curious child who has wandered free of her caretaker.

Since the end of the world that wasn’t, Aziraphale’s been glowing more. If Crowley were more settled, he might find it pleasant, or better yet, _telling_. He just wills his glasses to be pure obsidian instead of tinted glass, because _fuck_, everything’s just a little too bright right now and he can’t stand it.

He’s breathing heavy, and leans against one of stone pillars at the entrance of the park to try to catch his breath, but the feel of the stone’s rough grain on his fingers makes a snarl grace his lips. _Too much, too much_. His breath shakes in his chest_. _

Something alerts Aziraphale to his presence, and he turns and _illuminates_ at the sight of him. The four-year-old is much more awed by that than the coin he’s supposedly pulled from behind her ear. He coquettishly flaps a hand at Crowley, blowing a kiss in his direction, and Crowley snaps.

He grabs for somewhere, _anywhere_, and lands on the dark side of the moon. He’s gasping, chest heaving, and there’s no oxygen here so that really shouldn’t work. All he smells and tastes is raspberries, and he hates fruit and most especially raspberries, but _fuck_ I guess Someone liked raspberries enough to make everything in space smell like that. Motes of moon dust fleck around him, frozen in time, as he desperately claws at something resembling collection. His face is wet and smeary, and he pulls out a flannel handkerchief (a flat red with no checks, thank you very much) and mops his face up. He can feel the ache of time growling at him to return it to its incessant churn forward, and that’s a nagging reminder that if he pushes against time’s natural rhythm too much, Aziraphale might notice.

With that thought pulsing in his skull, he releases his hold on the heartbeat of time and pops back into the park with a jerk. He lurches and stumbles towards Aziraphale, hoping that he’s not poking out wings or eyes or whatever his true form even looks like. He’s honestly never seen it from the outside, so he has no idea.

Aziraphale looks a little nervous, but likely more so from the uncharacteristic romantic affection he’s just doled out than any reflection on Crowley’s presentation. The little girl takes one look at Crowley and bolts away towards her parents, a high-pitched wail all that’s left of her. It buzzes in Crowley’s ears like a siren, like Beelzebub when they’re in a smiting mood, looming over him with a pointy boot divorcing his collar bones from their natural order, but it’s just one of the billions of specks of sensory information assailing him. He walks towards Aziraphale, his skin pallid and sweaty, molars gritted against the onslaught. He pulls his sunglasses down a tick, and gives Aziraphale a saucy wink, managing to school his expression into something that might be called _Having a Panic Attack, but with Style_.

Crowley purposely leaves something like five feet of space between himself and the angel. Enough room that Aziraphale could potentially drag a feather from his wing against his face if he thought about it, and now that Crowley considers that fact, he lopes a little to the right, just a little farther away. Just in case.

“Paying your respects?” Crowley manages to croak through his lockjaw, gesturing at the memorial the angel’s perched on.

Aziraphale’s grinning terribly, giddy on the joy of showing affection and receiving it in turn, even if it’s from a great distance. But his eyebrows crinkle, and he finally manages to get over the puff of giddiness blended with anxiety for a second and actually _look_ at Crowley: he’s shivering terribly, hands stuffed into too-small pockets and emanating a strong aura of “do not approach” that’s forcing all humans, animals, and even the pleasant breeze to give him a wide berth.

“Are you alright, Crowley?” he asks, getting up from his perch on the fountain’s edge and Crowley dances back a few steps, laughing a little maniacally. He coils himself against a nearby tree, trying to look nonchalant as the bark bites into his hand. He emits a string of stuttered syllables, hunting for the words to smother Aziraphale’s concern, some way to get Aziraphale talking and not so focused on him. It should be easy, he’s done it a million times before, but all he’s getting is a daisy chain of aborted thoughts, starts and stops of phrases.

Aziraphale smiles a little at the show, but continues forward, curious if he can perhaps soothe the shivering with a magicked peacoat: black with red flannel lining, and a deep crimson pocket square that he knows will go just lovely with Crowley’s silver and black ensemble.

“Really, dear, if you’re cold, don’t suffer,” he shakes the coat out in his hand, struggling a little on the incline up to Crowley and his tree. Crowley is horrified to see him _coming closer, _and the shivering that he’d been barely containing develops into a full body shudder as he claws at the tree for purchase. His hands leave a bloody smear on a sharpened knot, and Aziraphale frowns as Crowley’s knees nearly buckle under the shudder. He continues his slow stride towards the demon, as if he’s approaching a skittish animal, and Crowley expands suddenly away from the tree he’s clutching like a buoy in an ocean and cries a little hysterically, “Yeh, ‘m fine! Just g-g-s—”

Aziraphale has been desperately trying not to put together the pieces of this puzzle. Honestly, he’s good at noticing something but primly looking away, turning the other cheek, letting things take the course that’s Planned. But this is the _fourth_ time he’s heard that, or something like that, shouted at him by the demon in about a week. Aziraphale certainly takes things slowly, just to make sure things are heading the way he thinks. He doesn’t want to make any rash decisions, you know. But four occurrences in so little time is enough of a trend that he’s considering it time to engage and do something about all this. To be honest, he’d been hoping the blown kiss might help, but if anything, it seems to have made it worse. How troubling.

“Crowley,” he calls softly, taking longer strides now to break the distance between them. Crowley makes a guttural noise and lopes away, and that certainly isn’t a smart thing to do, now is it? Angels and demons are occult war machines at the base of it, perhaps utilized for different ends, blunted on star stuff or sharpened on divine vengeance, but the original purpose is engrained in the stock. Something predatory sits deep in their nature, and at the sight of Crowley running at full speed away from him, something of the hunter whirs to life in Aziraphale. He drops his chips and the new coat, and scrambles after the demon who’s still laughing a little as he pants away from him.

Crowley doesn’t really know where he’s going or even why he’s even running in the first place. All he’s really sure of is that all this frenetic, horrid energy he’s been storing in a lockbox deep in his soul is bubbling up inside him and it’s refusing to be contained in his corporation anymore. Running feels kind of _great_ right now. He feels like he could run the whole globe round, and maybe that might help? The burning in his calves and lungs draws attention away from the _too much_ of the wind on his face, the tug of his clothes against his skin, the smear of phlegm that’s still sticking in his throat.

Ultimately, the one who’s not inches from a nervous breakdown manages to cut a corner with a little magic, and scoops the demon up with a squawk. For a second Crowley is sure he’s dying, _this is it_. Aziraphale is an angel, a weapon of Her will, and certainly Her will would always be to destroy evil, right? The dagger in the sleeve that Crowley has been terrified of in some of his deepest, darkest thoughts, knowing that the second he lets himself relax, lay his head in his angel’s lap, he’d look up and all he’d see would be cool, controlled fury as Aziraphale did what he was made to do: _protect. _Not Crowley, no, no, no, of course not, Aziraphale was built with one purpose and one purpose only: protect humanity. And demons are meant to lead humanity astray, so of course_, of course, _it would come to this, a knife in the throat and grim determination in those beautiful gray eyes that always liked to pretend to be whatever color the sky was.

The sensation of Aziraphale’s arms on his waist feels like fire, and he’s sure it’s the final betrayal. He’s—he’s doused himself in holy water, that’s it, and he’s going to kill him like this, arms delicately holding him out like he’s a plucked rose to be placed in a vase.

Aziraphale doesn’t lean in usually, doesn’t push against Crowley’s walls purposefully. He respects Crowley and wants to give him his space because the poor thing seems to desperately need it. Aziraphale can relate, certainly, sometimes people are just a bit too much and all he wants to do is sit at home and read under a number of voluminous quilts. It hurts a little, if he’s being honest. Aziraphale is very willing to have Crowley in with him when he is in those moods, almost as if the serpent is as much of a balm as the warmth of ensconcing himself in too many layers. They’ve never really… talked about it, so all he can really do is surmise based on his own experience, deduce what he can from the handful of times he’s seen behind the veil.

This time Aziraphale’s fingers dig into his stylish coat, catching on his fashionable scarf, and he’s blindsided by _holy water_, _betrayal_, _too much toomuchtoomuchTOOMUCH_ and he decides now would be an absolutely great time to not be in the middle of the park and perhaps instead be somewhere else, _anywhere _else really. Aziraphale dumps them into the back of his bookshop, eyes shut tight against the treacle of Crowley’s horror and fear. The miracle causes Crowley to momentarily go offline, and he slumps in Aziraphale’s arms which actually isn’t all that helpful other than finally breaking the blinding emotional link they’d had.

Crowley’s a lot heavier than his lanky form suggests, but this isn’t the first time Aziraphale has had to lug the stupid serpent around. He carefully counter levers his weight against Crowley’s, awkwardly goose-stepping, and manages to drop him onto his old Victorian fainting couch. Aziraphale’s sweating, and he notes the tears on his own cheeks from Crowley’s spiral of emotion. He doesn’t want to leave Crowley, lest he wake up and decide to disappear before they can have a talk about _what the hell_ _that was about_, so he absentmindedly grabs the kettle he left on a tea cozy this morning, and it’s full of blistering hot tea because that’s just what’s happening now.

Aziraphale rubs at the chocolate remnants on his mug without really thinking, and it obligingly cleans itself so he can pour tea into it. He takes a long sip of hot green tea, and shakily sits in his armchair, considering the pallid mess on his sofa. He looks feverish, perhaps, too pale with sickly splotches of red around his collar and near his cheekbones. They’ve both had spates of magical fevers, their gifts suddenly warped and misbehaving, miracles and temptations misfiring. Crowley’s had it worse, he knows. He practically oozes magic, giving illness more of a chance to creep in. Or maybe it’s his insistence on penal ascetism, never giving himself the care that he needs?

Crowley doesn’t stay down for too long, suddenly springing up, glasses clattering off his face as he launches himself bodily from the couch. Aziraphale sees unadulterated terror in the serpent’s eyes, hardly anything left beneath the yawning void of that emotion. His body is still shuddering randomly, lungs and heart occasionally reminding him to breathe in hard gulps of air. The only warning of a break in the terror, a choice made, is Crowley’s left arm pulling down a little, a shine of a tire iron like he had on the tarmac. Aziraphale jumps up and wraps an angelic lead around Crowley’s ankle before he can leap away. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t just let him leave like this. Somehow, he knows that if Crowley leaves like this, _he won’t be back._ Maybe just for a decade, or a century, maybe… Aziraphale can’t help but worry that this time, it won’t just be distance, but something more final, and Aziraphale has never been able to handle the concept of a world without this specific demon in it.

It’s selfish and terrible to hold a demon, _this demon especially_, but he can’t help it. When Crowley fails to leave, or do whatever he’d been attempting to do, he crumples onto the floor, and there’s a loud crack as the sofa he’d been laying on splits roughly behind him. His wings stutter out, larger than Aziraphale remembers them being, and Crowley curls into himself whimpering and crying. He presses his hands against his ears as if there’s too much noise, pushes his face into his knees so hard that his eye sockets hurt from the pressure, and rocks back and forth helplessly.

Aziraphale attempts calm, studiously picking up the scattered pieces of Crowley’s glasses, and restores them to one piece of very expensive accessory with a forceful pop that stings of heavenly wroth. He finds himself incredibly angry, furious even, something darkly visceral and protective writhing in his gut. He’s thinking of demons chanting “Guilty!”, thousands of years of Crowley’s stalked looks over the shoulder, eying the exits, rocking on the balls of his feet with a shiver of fight-or-flight anticipation, a worried smile flicked at Aziraphale when he realizes he’s been caught in the act again. Really, just the idea that Crowley is _that_ afraid of anything means that he’s been hurt and scared before and Aziraphale hadn’t been there to help him.

The angel knows this to be the truth, actual, concrete fact, and it burns him worse than hellfire ever could. They were not always such bosom buddies that Crowley would run to him in times of trouble. In fact, Crowley was generally in the habit of not coming to Aziraphale until the damage had already been done, and he needed to be brought round again, using the angel like a bottle of existential smelling salts. But the possessive sliver of _who did this to you, I’ll unmake_ _them, atom by atom,_ is trembling at the edges of Aziraphale’s consciousness, seething and threatening to consume him. The feeling had flittered at the edges of Aziraphale’s thoughts with each previous doctoring, but after walking into hell in the demon’s shoes, it’s almost a deafening roar. With effort, he smooths it away like a crease in the tablecloth. _Now is not the time, _he commands himself primly, _heal now, smite later._

He quietly sets the restored glasses on the coffee table, and delicately sits himself down a few feet from the quivering mess he’s helplessly infatuated with. He lays a hand, gentle, against the wood floor of his shop not far from Crowley and a glowing white ring surrounds his body and wings, encasing him in the most loving, caring, and defensive (for the demon) devil’s trap that the world has ever seen. Crowley doesn’t seem to notice, just pushes his knees in closer, wraps his elbows around them while still covering his ears, and continues panting quietly.

Aziraphale slowly leans in a little, the urge to soothe and comfort absolutely overwhelming him even though he knows Crowley’s sensitive right now, too sensitive to touch, sound, smell, _too much_. He’s fingering through his memories, trying to find the clues, ways he could’ve prevented this, messages he’d failed to understand communicated from behind tinted glass. All he can find, as he is helplessly tugged into Crowley’s orbit, is the slight shivering that’s been bubbling under the surface lately. The broken smile, the glimmer of yellow as he babbles something about his plants, and leaves Aziraphale stranded on his own doorstep when he might’ve normally hung around, helping the angel finish this sherry or that cabernet.

“Crowley,” he croons softly, only barely managing to keep his hand from touching the ginger hairs on the shuddering forearm nearest him. He notes the tire iron, leaning against Crowley’s side like it’s desperately trying to keep its master upright. “Crowley, let me help, dear,” Aziraphale whispers, fingers a hands-breadth away from his forearm. The shudders just get worse, and the gasping manages to sound wetter.

Crowley feels like he’s been cracked open like an egg, his insides oozing out and leaving behind fever-hot flesh which somehow manages to ooze out more even though he feels like he should be empty by now. Somewhere, deep, deep, _deep_ inside of him, a reasonable version of himself is draped on his three-piece sofa, twirling a tire iron around its fingers, and chuckling a little. “Can’t hold it all in forever,” it intones, smirking at the emotional tar flooding everything, dripping down the walls, smothering even this tiny voice of reason. The voice cackles a little. “Something’s gotta give,” the voice isn’t Crowley’s anymore, it’s something raw and awful, the voice of God he remembers from before the fall.

“Crowley, I’m going to—” and he shouldn’t, he _knows_ he shouldn’t, but he does, “I’m going to come in, okay?” His hand hovers hesitantly, brushing the errant red hairs but Crowley doesn’t duck away, too busy desperately baling water from a sinking ship.

He gulps thickly, and manages a low, muttered, “Azzzrful.” Nothing is cooperating, and he shudders so hard that the couch remnant behind him is shoved away by one of his spasming wings.

Aziraphale very delicately, using just two fingers, encircles Crowley’s thin wrist, and this time, he doesn’t get overwhelmed by the storm. He can feel it distantly, but he’s forcing himself to stand outside the gates, extending a hand through the bars.

“Let me help,” Aziraphale croons, his concern and worry bleeding through his spectral form.

“You can’t,” Crowley is suddenly next to him, and he spits the words out with so much venom it feels like he’s just raked claws across his face. Crowley leans aggressively against the wrought-iron bars, pushing into Aziraphale’s space, and he’s _different_ somehow. So beautiful to Aziraphale that his soul aches at the vision before him. He’s larger, well, still thin but _taller, _his hair a messy cascade down his shoulders, and light keeps bending around him. Aziraphale can sense that _other_ part of himself that Crowley hides so well. No one knows what Crowley looks like unbound, discorporated, which is certainly mysterious after all this time. The demon’s succumbed to witch hunters, warlocks, his head shoved on a pike for all the world to see, but somehow no one knows what blend of otherworldly lingers beneath the surface.

The vision sneers at the angel’s curiosity, and Aziraphale is aware of another loud crack in the real world as Crowley starts shuddering harder, a relentless earthquake under his fingers.

“_Go_,” this vision that sucks in the light around him snarls, all red and black and searing magic. He shoves his face into Aziraphale’s, trying to cow him.

Aziraphale reaches up, and up, and up, _he’s so much taller here_, and his hand caresses the brand that glitters on his cheek, and he’s pulling Crowley’s face down to his, and—

Crowley’s wrenches his hand from his, and his eyes are blazing yellow, looking scandalized and wounded. He mutters something unintelligible, and shuffles back, wings casting wide behind him as he takes in the white engravings on the floor. He expects the barriers of a devil trap to burn, because they always have in the past, and, honestly? He could do with some good old-fashioned char and destruction right now. He moves to dash himself against the runes, but all he feels is… warmth and love, arms around him cuddling and soothing. He hiccups wetly, and glances at the angel who is looking terribly worried, and terribly love-struck, tossed away on the shop’s floor.

“Stop,” he begs, because he’s drawn away from the edges of the trap, but it’s no use, the magic is utterly infused with Aziraphale and his unending love and it’s _killing_ him. “Stopstopstop,” he chants, and holds his head again, shuddering and shaking.

Aziraphale shakes himself, and forces himself back into his own skin (_haven’t had to do that in a while_), and the all-encompassing joy and love meant solely for this demon and this demon alone, eases. Crowley pants and gazes at Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale stretches a hand forward again. When Crowley had knocked his hand away, he’d apparently used a wing to shove him as well. The floor is littered with black feathers and down, and Aziraphale has two feathers on him, one somehow neatly tucked into his waistcoat pocket and another in his lap. “Tell me what I can do to help. Please.”

Crowley gulps, and looks at the floor as he considers his request. _Nothing_, he thinks hard, as if thoughts would manifest somehow in Aziraphale’s head even though they’re now separated physically. Then, _just end it already_, but he dashes that thought away as quickly as the first. He coughs another wet, lung rending thing, and shivers. He feels like a washcloth wrenched between two hands, wringing out everything, _used up_.

After a long period of silence, Aziraphale gets up, tucking an iridescent black feather rather adorably behind one of his ears.

“I’ll get you some water, at least.” He disappears from view for a second, and Crowley has to stop himself from lunging for the cage Aziraphale has him in because he’s scared of all that _love_ again.

Aziraphale comes back with a jug of water and a round, flat drinking bowl Crowley hasn’t seen in centuries. To modern eyes, it might look like a very fancy wooden pet dish, but Crowley recognizes it. He’d commissioned it with a serpent twining around the bottom, decadently visible to the drinker. The silver gilt hides the tiniest engraving that Crowley could manage, _to my angel_. It wasn’t the first time he’d secreted love of the angel into a gift, but it makes something deep in his soul purr in pleasure that Aziraphale kept this through the ages, and even though the silver’s not as bright as it could be, it’s clearly been taken care of. Aziraphale pours the water in reverently and comes closer into the circle with Crowley. He holds the mazer up to Crowley’s lips, radiating love like a heater, and Crowley helplessly drinks, all thoughts of holy water and betrayal crinkling and fizzing away. For now, anyway.

Aziraphale patiently feeds him water for a while, and Crowley’s feeling mildly calmer. Aziraphale sets the empty bowl aside, and uses some of the water left in the jug to wet his handkerchief. He brings it delicately forward, a questioning look in his eyes. Crowley ducks his eyes, but lets himself unspool from his tight, tense ball a little. Aziraphale has doctored him before, through fevers, plagues, and what frankly passes for demonic alcohol poisoning. What’s a little nervous breakdown on top of that?

The cloth is cool on his forehead, it doesn’t burn or ache; in fact, it feels nice. He takes a shaky breath, and Aziraphale delicately tilts his head up and dabs the salt from his cheeks, nose, and mouth. He’s beginning to run the cloth down Crowley’s tear-wet jaw when it’s too much again, and Crowley feels another bubble of panic blossoming in his chest. He grabs Aziraphale’s wrist, and finally meets his eyes, and Crowley looks exhausted to the core, wrecked.

“Enough,” he growls with no venom, but Aziraphale’s eyebrows quirk up as he notices some red on his sleeve where Crowley’s loosely gripping him.

He tsks a little, and turns Crowley’s palm up. There’s a raw scrape from the tree earlier, scabbing slowly with bits of bark and other grit in it. Aziraphale snaps his fingers lightly, and his medical kit is there beside them. He pours some of the water over Crowley’s palm which Crowley can’t help but stare at in wonder. He can feel the teenager down the block spitting their gum on the pavement, the rumble of the bus idling at the light, the cool breeze tucking under Aziraphale’s door, but he didn’t feel _this_ at all.

He’s slowly, dimly becoming aware of a sharp ache in his hand. He clutches at it desperately because it roots him here in this moment, sitting in a devil’s trap with Aziraphale daubing ointment on the wound and wrapping it in wide bandages. When Aziraphale kisses his palm reverently, his heart betrays him, desperately trying to leap out of his chest and place itself there, beneath the angel’s lips.

“Thanks,” he all-but whimpers, drawing his hand back to himself a bit hastily. Aziraphale smiles a little sadly, but lets him go; the feather behind his ear flipping up a little, coming close to falling. Crowley swallows hard against the lump in his throat, and lightly circles his arms around his legs. A few shivers break through him, and he curls down to lean his chin on his knee, looking like an abandoned child.

“Would you like some more water, dear?” Aziraphale asks, filling the mazer again and taking a long sip himself. Crowley takes a deep breath, testing. His senses seem to be slowly winding back to him so that he can just feel the weight of his tight jeans, the remnants of his jacket uncomfortably tight around the base of his wings, and the achy tautness of crying too much.

“Sure,” he reaches out to take the mazer, and Aziraphale hands it over easily. He gulps a little sloppily, and grimaces at the dribble of water slipping on the bare skin of his chest. He can’t remember the last time he lost it enough to ruin a shirt with his wings. He had rather liked that jacket.

He shivers again, thumbing the silver gilt, for a second unable to handle being 6,000 years old and still having to deal with this stupid sensory overload thing and panic attacks to boot. “Sorry,” he slides the mazer over to Aziraphale and turns away from him, carefully tucking his wing so the angel won’t get whapped this time.

Aziraphale sighs theatrically, and huffs a quiet, “Really!” He picks up the mazer and retreats from the sulking demon into his kitchenette. He wishes he hadn’t eaten the last cream puffs this morning with hot cocoa, because that means that right now there’s nothing edible in his shop except for some calcified lemon bars that had been a little bitter two weeks ago when they’d bought them and certainly would just taste like fridge right now. He begins to heat up some milk in a saucepan for some more cocoa because that’s all that he can really offer at the moment, as meager as it is. Aziraphale takes a quick look after Crowley, but he’s still sitting there, looking like the inspiration for a particularly sordid cathedral sculpture, his black wings arcing beautifully, protectively, around him, with his head cast downward. Something deep in Aziraphale’s chest aches terribly at the sight, and he has to grip the countertop to keep from toppling over with how hard his body is leaning towards Crowley.

Aziraphale shakes himself, realizing that the milk is beginning to curdle. He bustles out with two cups of cocoa a few minutes later, and Crowley has managed to shrink his wings to a size which doesn’t seem quite so daunting. He’s also pulled the old quilt Aziraphale keeps on the fainting couch around his middle, the remnants of his jacket and shirt in his lap, threads idly being teased.

Crowley’s not shivering or shuddering, thankfully; he just seems very tired and very sad.

“Here you go,” Aziraphale offers Crowley a mug that Adam gave him, an adorable kitten hanging onto a branch with the words “Hang in there!” written on it in a childish font at the bottom. Aziraphale may have edited it a little to give the kitten wings because it would be terribly unsafe otherwise.

Crowley smiles a little softly, whispers his thanks, and sips the dark cocoa with zero marshmallows and a hint of cayenne. They sit in silence for a few moments, neither feeling particularly keen on addressing the black hole in the room.

“You jus’ gon’ leave me ‘n here forever, angel?” Crowley’s voice is crackly, and he’s aiming very hard for nonchalant. It hits something closer to bleak humor.

Aziraphale sniffs a little, tilting his head at the glowing sigils he’s imprinted there. “I’m afraid I don’t really trust you to not go off and… discorporate yourself in shame after this,” he says softly, eying his black wings with something hot behind his eyes.

Crowley scoffs, but has to cough a little from all the trouble his throat has been holding back lately. He sputters and shudders a bit, wishing he could just sink into the ground. He recovers with a soft laugh after a moment. “Don’t think I’ve ever been held in a trap that wouldn’t burn me, honestly,” he traces some of the interior lines in wonder. “Nicely done,” his voice is thick with something Aziraphale can’t discern, his face ducked under the shade of his wing. 

There’s another long beat of silence, and Crowley shivers again. “Are you cold?” Aziraphale asks this time, because he’d been wrong before.

Crowley laughs a little. “Yes,” he says to his own surprise. “Gotta calm down enough to get these,” he makes a tight noise of annoyance, shuffling his shoulders and wings, “back in before I can really fix that though.”

A number of inappropriate responses rip through Aziraphale’s mind which he delicately hides behind a long sip of cocoa. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asks again, voice tight with some suppressed emotion.

Crowley looks up at him, hair no longer slicked up in the air but flopping over his forehead adorably. Aziraphale’s heart sings, but he forces himself to watch this time, not just fawn. “Uh…” Crowley mutters softly. “It’s…” he’s struggling with something, and he shudders again, another full-body one like he’s suppressing a bad possession. “I don’t think you can help with this one,” Crowley finally offers once the shudders stop.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, something twinkling in his eyes.

Crowley crinkles his brow at Aziraphale, low-grade shivers still plaguing him. “I… suppose you could drop me by my flat so I could sleep?” he offers to the floor, uncertain.

Aziraphale has his hands in front of his mouth, one holding the other, and is peering at Crowley as if he’s just done something terribly interesting. “You could always sleep here, dear,” Aziraphale finally says, snapping his fingers and the fainting couch is back in one piece. It looks quite a bit more like a daybed than it used to, a bit longer, with some interesting cut outs in the backboard that would easily accommodate a winged being such as Crowley.

“Y-ya don’t have to do that,” Crowley whispers, and his shivers are getting worse again. He’s surveying the new daybed as if it might turn into a giant sphinx and devour him, so he doesn’t quite notice Aziraphale approaching him until he’s nearly upon him. He jerks back and hisses, _the love is almost worse than holy sigils, **fuck**_. He lurches forward into Aziraphale’s legs, and is faintly aware of Aziraphale saying something along the lines of “Oh no, dear boy, don’t-don’t hurt yourself—”

Now Crowley has to deal with the fact that his bare chest and head are currently pressed against Aziraphale’s legs, and his brain is having some trouble staying online. He usually has to compartmentalize touching the angel to the barest touches because he can control himself then, the 6,000-year ache won’t bleed through if it’s just a brush of the fingers, or a casual pat on the back. He should lurch back again, but there’s just Aziraphale everywhere and _he can’t stand it_, so he just curls an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and shudders helplessly, forcing his mind to be utterly blank.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale intones, and his hands brush through his hair and Crowley nearly bites his tongue in half keeping everything blank. “Come on dear, let’s get you on the couch,” he says softly, and bends down, knuckles brushing both his wings near the base and then Crowley actually does bite his tongue in half.

Crowley splutters, because suddenly his mouth is very full of warm copper. Aziraphale _was_ attempting to pull Crowley up by the waist again, as experience has taught him that that’s the easiest way to move the lanky beast. Usually Crowley isn’t awkwardly clutching him, or winged, or awake at all, so the whole thing goes rather pear-shaped. Aziraphale realizes they’re going to fall down quite painfully into one-another, and they’ll probably both get nasty concussions against the new daybed and floor, so he pulls his weight so that he falls, shoulder-first, into the daybed, hefting Crowley up with him. The devil’s trap widens considerably to accommodate the change, now spinning passively around them.

“Crowley dear, why are you bleeding from your mouth?” Aziraphale wonders at the creature clutching his knees and looking sick. He gulps a little guiltily, and closes his eyes as shudders rock through him again. Aziraphale leans forward awkwardly, and sticks his thumb into the crook of Crowley’s cheek, forcing his mouth open. Crowley’s not home, just trying to make his way through this moment, desperately focusing on the Other Space which is so blank and white for miles and miles, his pupils dilating oddly. Aziraphale reaches into his mouth and with a sizzle of magic, his tongue is in one piece again. Aziraphale huffs, rubbing his now slightly bloody and slobbery hand through Crowley’s hair. The fact that Crowley’s control is slipping in the wake of everything that’s happened in the past hour, hell, the past _year_ really shouldn’t be a surprise, but some dark part of him roars in betrayal as he shakily leans his head into Aziraphale’s caress.

Aziraphale kneads at the tension in the back of his neck gently, his thumb rocking back and forth behind his ear, breathless at the beautiful, broken creature in his lap. He really hopes this counts as helping and isn’t hurting him, because Crowley has a little pinched look around his brows and his thin lips keep pursing into a frown. “Are you okay?” Aziraphale asks softly, and Crowley’s eyes open slightly, yellow swirling from side to side.

“No,” Crowley’s voice is dark and gravelly. He looks up at Aziraphale, looking hunted and so, so tired. “I—I can’t,” he says, and weakly tries to push himself up and away from Aziraphale’s fingers delicately drawing swirls on his occipital. Crammed into the third of the couch that Aziraphale isn’t flounced on, it’s hard to tell if he’s shivering still, but the way his skinny arms shake as he pushes away from Aziraphale’s legs assures him that yes, his treacherous body is still betraying him. Aziraphale pulls back his legs a little to give him some space, but keeps his hand where it is.

“Please,” Crowley whines, but he can’t bring himself to say, _please stop touching me_, because he doesn’t really want that, even though it’s what he’d meant to say.

“Here,” Aziraphale huffs a little, and pulls Crowley up into a sitting position. Crowley bonelessly lets himself be carted into position, noting that it’s a little hard to breathe, as if his chest is on fire.

“I-I think you’re having a bit of a panic attack, dear,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley yawps a wet laugh because that’s the understatement of the year. He looks up at Aziraphale with something that could only be described as utter adoration tinged with exhaustion, and starts to say something, but Aziraphale tuts, and comes closer to him, angling his back so it’s towards the angel. “Azir—” “Shh, Crowley, this will help. I think,” and Aziraphale takes his bookbinder hands and begins cradling Crowley’s shoulders.

There’s little callouses on his fingers, Crowley notes. They’d caught in his hair, but it hadn’t bothered him then, so why would it now?

Aziraphale kneads at the heavy tension in his shoulders with deep, rolling motions of his fingers and the heels of his palms, pinching and then grinding into the tense knobs he finds there. He doesn’t linger, as Crowley keeps jumping and making little discomfort hisses. He lets his fingers trail up Crowley’s neck, whisper-light and then he begins delicately picking apart the tension in the muscles at the nape of his neck, noting how the hairs at the base of his skull curl a little, and on the right side of his head, the hairs here curl a different way than the rest. He delicately kneads forward, his fingers lightly tensing over the sides of his neck, and then comes back to the spot where his spine and skull join. Crowley’s gulping thickly, still tasting copper and carefully trying to map out the tartan pattern of the quilt around his middle, which most certainly had just been a dull beige before. It’s now checked, a blue and pale-yellow affair that Crowley’s picking at as he tries desperately not to think about how wonderful it would be to just lean back and sit in Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale cradles Crowley’s skull, and rubs the heels of his hands down his neck, once, twice, and Crowley can’t help the sigh that escapes his lips as Aziraphale returns with his fingers dancing down his spine and back to his shoulders. Using his knuckles, he kneads at the trapezius from his shoulder blades in, rocking his knuckles back and forth as he travels towards the spine. Crowley is _melting_. He’s leaning forward, away from the depth of the massage, but keeps arcing up into the nimble fingers and knuckles even as he’s melting forward. There’s a quiet _shuk _as his wings pop back where they belong, and Aziraphale is glad that Crowley’s not able to see his face at that moment because he’s most definitely blushing at being able to get an eyeful of all that demon flesh draped over his new daybed.

Crowley whimpers a little at the loss of the deeper massage, Aziraphale being so busy ogling that his hands have only been lightly caressing and not massaging. Aziraphale can’t help himself, and with a bitten smile, he runs his hands up and down the demon’s back, worrying at the dry skin on his lips to keep himself from kissing the spot between Crowley’s wings.

“Angel,” Crowley starts, his voice dark with something that makes Aziraphale dizzy with desire. Aziraphale thumbs the thought away by digging said thumbs deep into the muscle just beneath his shoulder blades and dragging downward. Crowley moans, jumping a little as he reaches the tautness of his lower back. Aziraphale rolls his fingers into fists, curling his knuckles away from Crowley’s spine, and then gently, back in again.

“Fffuck,” Crowley groans, and lets himself go languid under the angel’s ministrations.

Aziraphale is standing, eventually, rocking his fists and fingers away from the spine and up towards the shoulder blades again. Crowley is a man-shaped puddle, humming with pleasure, and no longer shivering or shuddering. Aziraphale kneads heavily into Crowley’s shoulders, now much less tight and much warmer than Crowley usually runs.

Aziraphale finishes by delicately running his fingertips up from the little divots on Crowley’s lower back all the way up to the fine, reddish hairs at the nape of his neck. Crowley shivers in pleasure, and all of his muscles ache from the amount of that he’s been doing lately, but he can’t help it. There’s a beat of time where Crowley aches for Aziraphale’s touch and is drunk on love, or pheromones or _something_ and is trying to articulate his desire for Aziraphale to _please keep touching me_, but all he manages is a few soft sibilant syllables that mean nothing.

Aziraphale isn’t really sure what to do with himself, overcome with love at the sight of Crowley the most relaxed he’s seen him in… oh, perhaps centuries at this point. He finds his hand caressing Crowley’s head, fingers lingering through his hair and noting the little clot of blood he’d raked through his locks earlier. Aziraphale sits on the floor, head in his unoccupied palm, helplessly in love, with his other hand toying at Crowley’s bangs as he hisses something inaudible and smiles indulgently at the angel. After a few moments of Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair, Crowley drifts to sleep, and Aziraphale feels like all the love in his chest is going to discorporate him.

* * *

Aziraphale eventually disentangles himself from the demon with some regret. He still feels the need to eat as they were planning to go out to lunch before this whole debacle. He’s perhaps a little hungrier than usual, though. He’d once thumbed through a magazine Crowley or some customer had left in his shop, one of those women’s magazines that suggest whipped-cream bikinis as the solution to a dull man rather than a divorce or a sapphic affair. There’d been a short, pithy article about how to stop oneself from eating one’s feelings, and Aziraphale had all but quivered with the sense of being _seen_. It was honestly one of his favorite things about reading, the fact that with a drag of symbols on a page, you could connect with someone, somewhere, who was desperately calling out, “It can’t just be me that feels this way!” And your soul would resonate, and say, “Why of course not, me too.”

It was just a little, hm, humbling, to have that experience with an article snipping at him that he just needed to start exercising when he felt like that, or perhaps cleaning, or helping little Timmy or Bimmy with their homework. He’d binned the magazine, and promptly eaten an entire tower of profiteroles, not seeing the connection until later when he was trying to decide whether he should miracle away his indigestion or not.

At the moment, he’s torn because he would very much like to go out and pick up a basket of crisp sourdough sandwiches from the deli across town, and also perhaps get a lovely fish steak for Crowley to polish off when he wakes up, maybe even drop in on the grocer and pick up some terrible sparkling wine to top the whole thing off. But he can’t do that, because doing that would mean leaving Crowley alone in his bookshop, locked in a devil’s trap that he’s still not entirely comfortable with dispelling.

It takes Aziraphale a dubious amount of time to remember that delivery is an option. Crowley as Nanny had once bought the three of them lunch from three different restaurants with zero miracles. He’d tipped the poor delivery boy generously, and his smug, self-satisfied grin was entirely for the angel’s benefit (it had mystified young Warlock, but Nanny was weird, so whatever). Once the boy had been put to bed, Aziraphale had interrogated him endlessly.

“No, it’s not something from my side,” he’d smiled, reapplying his damned lipstick, a deeper red that day. “Not yours either,” he said, rubbing his lips together with a mild shrug. “Humans are ingenious beasties,” he’d grinned ferally at Aziraphale, his sensuality always so much more pointed in feminine form. It had taken all of Aziraphale’s wits and wiles not to faint, _or worse_, devour him with kisses.

Aziraphale has used the services from time to time, but usually he felt so bad making them dash from one place to the next that he would sigh and deign to just order from one restaurant or patisserie at a time. Today he orders from two places, and doesn’t feel too ashamed about it as he listens to the soft snoring from his couch. His mind keeps idly returning to the fetching thing that had tried to shoo Aziraphale out of Crowley’s head. Part of his mind wants to memorize the swirls of red, some braids here or there perhaps? The way his sneer had sucked the light away and made his gold eyes even brighter to compensate. He keeps shaking himself and trying to focus on what actually _happened_ rather than what it might have felt like to have one of those red curls draped around his finger. Would it stay in a curl, would it slip off his finger, or would it lengthen and straighten if he pulled on it a little?

He huffs to himself, forcing himself to get up and move a little. He won’t go for a jog, but pacing is certainly his style. He needs to get his head in order, figure out what exactly is happening with his demon. It’s been some time since the end of the world, and while Aziraphale has wanted to crush Crowley’s mouth against his for too long to really be thought about _ahem_, it had been especially difficult not to do so after that toast at the Ritz. He had toed the line for so long, and he knew that he had hurt Crowley rather devastatingly with his reticence. He was trying for a delicate hand this time, giving Crowley heaps of his spare time in the hopes that it might spark another admission. Honestly, he wanted nothing else than to spend time with him, so this wasn’t much of a sacrifice on his part. He made a habit of opening himself up, welcome mat in his lap, “come home” in his eyes, waiting for the demon to finally grin wryly at him, and say, “What took you so long, Aziraphale?”

Okay, so, maybe it wasn’t very delicate, or well thought out, or anything else. Well he was trying! Why couldn’t Crowley see he was desperate to have him here all the time, curled in his lap, perhaps not feverish or sick this time, but well and whole. His eyes flit to the demon, shifting idly in his sleep, coiling the tartan blanket tighter against himself. He looks frankly adorable, and Aziraphale pouts at the utter indecency of the fact that he can’t caress that face, especially because it’s partly his fault.

He thumps into the armchair across from the demon with a sigh. He always has a way of messing things up, doesn’t he? He doesn’t mean to; it just seems to happen that way. Ineffability and all that.

The yawning silence, marred only by soft sleeping breaths, begins to seed Aziraphale with doubt. What if he’s done the wrong thing? He honestly can’t stand the idea of being away from the demon for more than a day or so, visions of Hastur in drag banging him over the head and dumping him in a shallow grave, or encasing him in a holy crypt, or Satan knows what else. If Aziraphale were the sort to sleep, he wouldn’t be sleeping very well these days, jerking awake with night-terrors blending past gore with the current pastiche.

But what if Crowley had given up on him? That was a truly horrifying thought of good old, dependable Crowley; the same demon who had waltzed to his rescue multiple times even after rather terse, snarking prior meetings. Had he waited too long? Pushed the demon too far? He remembered the terror and betrayal in Crowley’s mind, something of a dagger or perhaps holy water. What if forcing his presence on the demon was what was creating these panic attacks? He couldn’t be _afraid_ of Aziraphale, could he? Not after all this time?

Aziraphale had never truly been afraid of Crowley, even in the beginning. A bit too willfully dense and anxious to be truly afraid, frozen and stuttering and simply doing his best to get through things moment to moment. Then, there was the fact that Crowley had time and again proven that he would either step in and let himself get creamed in his place and _you know you vile beast that this isn’t what I wanted!_, or if at all possible, redirect or reframe the train wreck away from them. That had certainly helped his trust the demon. But what has Aziraphale done for him? Has he proven that Crowley could trust him after all this?

The soft tinkle of the bell over the door startles them both, Crowley grumbling and wringing the blanket tighter around his shoulders, blinking blearily. Aziraphale quickly toddles off to the front, shaking himself of the malaise stirring in his gut, and takes the parcels and bags with a genuine smile. “Thank you, thank you,” he hums, signing his name with a little flourish. The delivery girl is a little astonished that the digital pad, which usually slaughters everyone’s signatures has managed to make Ezra Fell’s name look like it was written with a dip pen. It’s enough that she doesn’t notice the fact that he tips her in cash as well as through the site. He’s still called in the orders somehow because he can’t fathom ordering food without conversing with a human being.

Aziraphale is grateful that he ordered a catering platter of ten sandwiches, because before he’s even managed to set the bags on the coffee table across from Crowley, half of a sandwich has been polished off. He hums a little, licking errant seasoned mayonnaise off of his fingers and wishing the tomatoes were a little less mushy. Surely they can’t _all _be that mushy? Well, only one way to find out.

Crowley pushes his glasses onto his face, his head throbbing, and considers the angel, vibrating a little with something as the other half of the sandwich disappears. He hopes the angel doesn’t expect him to eat a crusty sandwich right now. He has been known to eat biscotti and truly, crusty sour dough is something of a guilty pleasure for him, but not when he feels like this. He nabs the soda bobbing with ice from its place on the table, and awkwardly slurps at the straw, clearing out the lingering taste of copper.

“Ah, Crowley, sorry,” Aziraphale tuts to himself, pulling out a separate package and proffering it to the demon. Crowley sets the soda back on the table and takes the package, which smells rather fishy now that it’s in his hands. _Ah_, he thinks, smiling a little to himself. It was Crowley who had introduced Aziraphale to sushi originally, sure that the love of oysters would easily bend a little to the east. He had intimated to the angel, once they had both been deep into their cups, that while small bits of fish with rice were lovely, a cut of raw fish was just fine with him as well. Serpent and all.

The package contains a white fleshed fish shank, slightly longer than his forearm, firm flesh still boned and scaled. “You’re too good to me sometimes, angel,” he croons, using his fingers to begin apportioning the flesh into a hunk he can fit in his mouth.

Aziraphale flushes deeply, and starts hiccupping wildly on his third sandwich with no drink. Crowley looks up at him, bony fingers already pulling off another piece while he crunches through his first mouthful. He gulps down with a little affected difficulty, and gestures at the soda, “’s your drink.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale hiccups loudly and looks flustered, “Quite.” He timidly takes a _hiccup_ pull from the soda _hiccup_ mind racing a little with the _hiccup_ thought that Crowley had just drank from it as well. Ah, good, no more—_hiccup._

He grouses loudly, sitting with a thump in his chair and sucking down more soda. Crowley chuckles a little to himself, trying not to let it be audible because he can’t bear the thought of embarrassing the angel when he looks so cross with his corporation.

The hiccups eventually fade, as do eight of the ten sandwiches and the entirety of the bony fish. Crowley idly picks at scales hugging his teeth, and grumbles at the pad of his hand that still aches, and now smells quite gross and fishy to boot. Aziraphale sighs, and picks up the ninth sandwich, delicately removing the thick heart of tomato within it.

“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you eat a proper sandwich,” Crowley finally offers to the silence. A nagging thought lingers, reminding him of Aziraphale consuming an entire baguette in preparation for a difficult conversation with a recalcitrant human, or occasionally, an angel (it had been two flutes _and_ a baguette that time). Crusty fresh bread is definitely more Crowley’s thing, so maybe he’s just doing it for Crowley’s sake? No, that doesn’t really make sense; Aziraphale eats for himself. That, and the anxiety penciled into that little divot between his ivory brows dashes that musing rather quickly.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale starts, tossing his head a little irritably, “I was in the mood, I suppose.” He swirls the now mostly melted ice left over from the soda as if it’s a fine port.

Crowley nods absent-mindedly, clutching the quilt as a particularly brutal breeze bites at him as it swirls from under the front door. “Oh, right. You’re cold,” Aziraphale snaps, more in irritability at his own lack of cogent thought than any magic or miracle. “Let me go see if I’ve got something for you to wear.” 

Crowley crinkles his brow incredulously. “No offense, angel,” Crowley starts, and Aziraphale meets his glasses with a withering glare, effectively quailing the tail end of that sentence, “—uh, I mean, I don’t know—if—”

“Just give me a second, Crowley,” he sniffs, and skips upstairs.

Crowley doesn’t think he’s been upstairs in this home of the angel. There are vague, feverish memories of downy quilts but the smell of incense and clay walls in the memories dissuades him. He’s rather curious, truly. During the two weeks they’d occupied each other, Aziraphale had miracled him a small room next to the kitchenette. Usually it housed a dank, never-used loo, but for two weeks it was a cramped bedroom with a window nook clustered with books he thought Crowley might like were he to read. In the intervening time since, it has darkened a little, but remained a spare bedroom rather than a room with a toilet that he really didn’t need. Crowley had dutifully respected the angel’s privacy, just milling around the store like he knew Aziraphale did, blustering at customers, accepting deliveries, and drinking quite a lot of chai. He left the upstairs well enough alone.

At the moment, he’s rather firmly rooted to the spot by a devil’s trap. Some curious piece of him wants to finger at the bars and feel that love wash over him again, maybe, maybe without an audience this time…

After a second of chewing on the meat of his cheek in thought, Crowley glumly curls his legs up on the couch, away from the sigils.

Aziraphale is upstairs, a little frantic because he can’t believe he’s misplaced one of his more beloved, secreted possessions. He’s near to cursing Adam for forgetting something so important to him, when he finally snags on the violet polyester sleeve, deep in his closet. He may have made the closet a little bit more interdimensional at some point, and it had really helped because he couldn’t bear to part with this waistcoat or that ascot, even if they were nothing more than rags at that point, but it also made it dreadfully difficult to find things at times.

He pulls the stiff violet shirt out and smooths it against the dresser door with a sigh. It had been some time in the mid-seventies, and he and Crowley were orbiting one another like they did in times of plush sin and savor. Crowley had his hair a little long, and was also sporting an absolutely maddening mustache. Aziraphale didn’t know if he was more scandalized by the ferret on his lip, or the fact that he was once again managing to show off too much skin with his unbuttoned shirts with engorged lapels. 

Frankly, Aziraphale loved it, but he couldn’t say that. Although, every time he saw Crowley so soon after handing him the tartan time bomb, his heart and eyes beat with gratitude. _Thank God, you’re still here, you haven’t left me._ Crowley had disappeared to America not long after that conversation in the Bentley, getting further embroiled in some sort of race in… space, which Aziraphale had long pondered as some sort of sordid metaphor for returning to the cosmos via holy water. It was only years later that he realized what the poor sod had actually been up to. Crowley occasionally pushed into Aziraphale’s sphere at the time, even as he was desperately trying to avoid the angel for his own mental health. He tried to stay away, maybe just watch from afar, but eventually, he’d inevitably stir up a little trouble like a petulant child begging for attention.

It was in a gay bar, one that Aziraphale just happened to _also_ be in at the same time. Aziraphale had been a little put off at first that Crowley had chosen _this_ bar to start trouble in, as Aziraphale had been working to curate it into a safe space for all. Of course, humans had that pesky free will, always, flustering his attempts.

Two burly, leather-clad young men were shoving their bodies into the space around a frail wisp of a woman, her makeup done a little inexpertly, her short hair coiffed into something she hoped would read as feminine. Aziraphale should’ve been there, honestly, but he’d been taken with listening to a young man ardently reading poetry to another young man. It rather reminded him of his old days in the gentleman’s club and he was feeling so romantic and nostalgic that it eclipsed nearly everything else.

The crash and howl of snarling laughter roused him, though, as Crowley tossed the two burly men into the dance floor. A bottle had been cracked over the demon’s head, his glasses chipped on one side, and he was a sight to behold, sneering and smiting with flashing yellow eyes. The music was suddenly a bombastic rock hit that hurt Aziraphale’s ears, and Crowley was, well, tempting two already very agitated young men into a bar fight? That doesn’t really take any demonic wiles. Managing to souse and fool the two idiots, and hurt no one in the process? That had taken quite a bit, and Crowley had panted with the effort of it as he leaned against the outside of the bar, the beer and blood sizzling off him from the heat he was giving off.

His violet shirt had been frankly ruined, and he’d taken it off in a rush, still beating off heat like a sun. Aziraphale had grabbed it haphazardly, and led the demon back to his shop to stitch up the worrying gash on his forehead. In the years that followed, he’d kept it as a dear souvenir. On bad nights, when Crowley was off galivanting in America or Russia or wherever, Aziraphale would lay in bed with it in his arms, desperately breathing in the soft smells of stale beer, sweat, and the soft, almost imperceptible scent of cinnamon, anise, and _something_ that was Crowley. He’d only laundered it in the early nineties, once the smells had finally betrayed him and gone from the fabric. He kept it still, occasionally pressing his face into it and remembering the beat of Crowley’s heat next to him, the busted lip trembling a little as he wove thread through flesh.

He shakes himself, and forces himself downstairs, even as some part of him is calling after him that maybe giving Crowley _this_ shirt to wear would be rather telling, perhaps _too_ telling. Aziraphale stubbornly ignores that voice in favor of fretting about the potential of Crowley giving him the shirt back after this, leaving it smelling like him again. He smiles a little wildly at that thought as he comes down the stairs, and Crowley regards him with an odd look hidden behind dark glass.

“What’s that?” he asks a little softly as Aziraphale proffers the stained shirt to him. Crowley tilts his head, taking the shirt in hand and gently rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It’s polyester, but polyester as rendered by demonic invention: subtly soft, scratchy only on the outside, and somehow almost silky.

There are times that Aziraphale really hates Crowley’s glasses, but sometimes even with the glass wall between them, Crowley’s glances at him feel like blows, and he's actually glad of the opaque glass. This is one of those times, a piercing glint of yellow and an arched brow as Crowley regards him.

“It’s-uh, you left it at the shop… you know, some time ago, I-I can’t say I really, hm, remember…” he babbles on as Crowley’s gaze keeps eating into him.

After a few beats of silence, Crowley finally draws his gaze from the angel’s increasingly exasperated face, and pulls the shirt on. Sometimes he misses the wide lapels of the seventies, something to be said about that idea of making oneself looking bigger and more fearsome. At the same time, he’d had to slouch a lot in back then, or maybe waste a little ‘see-what-you-expect’ miracle to hide his chest. The mustache had certainly helped people not question his perhaps just a shade-too-large to be masculine-normal bust. He doesn’t bother with it this time.

He feels somewhat small as he rights the shoulders, pulling it into place; a little too seen somehow.

“Thanks,” he says softly, buttoning the shirt up and grumbling a little that the buttons stop somewhere beneath his collarbones. It hadn’t been the fashion at the time, but frankly he’s cold _now_, and would prefer a sweater or something rather than this. He shrugs the quilt back over his shoulders, and sighs, not wanting to say what he’s going to say, but barreling through anyway.

“Thanks for uh, the fish. And… the backrub,” his voice is low, a little clicky with the lack of projecting he’s doing, the words lingering in his diaphragm. “Guess I wasn’t feelin’ like myself.”

Aziraphale is a little stunned, but recovers quickly. “Ah, it’s quite alright my dear,” he finds himself sitting on the couch next to the demon, something burgeoning in his chest at the sight of Crowley in that old shirt that he’s fantasized about for so many decades.

He takes a deep breath, straightening his love-drunk mind a bit like a crooked frame and turns back to the demon who’s looking at him quizzically. “I, uh, I would hope that after all this time…” Aziraphale lets his hand creep a little closer to the huddled demon, “You could trust me to help you, my dear.”

Crowley looks positively stricken as he finishes, and for a second he’s afraid there’ll be wings and a tire iron again. “Of course, I trust you,” he babbles after a second, the same manic laughter in his voice from the park.

Aziraphale gives him a dubious look, and Crowley sputters. “I’ve known you for quite a long time, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, leaning forward and gently turning the collar of the shirt so that it’s not flipping up in the back. Crowley twitches away from him at first, but gives him a jerky nod as he realizes what he’s doing and lets him.

“I’m rather fond of you, you know.” He’s a little surprised as it comes out of his mouth, and his hand comes up to thumb at the demon’s jaw.

Crowley looks dumbstruck, gaping a little. “I-I-I-” he stutters, “I-sure, yes, ’m fond of you too.” He turns away from Aziraphale’s hand, blushing and shutting him out again.

Aziraphale scoffs, and leans back on his side of the daybed, stretching his arms above his head. “Perhaps we just need to get some things out in the open?” he says, letting his mouth run miles ahead of the caution that’s cavorting after it with a muzzle and collar. He notes the cobwebs on the ceiling lamp along with his wildling heartbeat, feeling lightheaded and trembly.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice is dark and menacing, and that forces the angel to look over. “I don’t like the idea of having this conversation like this,” he gestures at the white sigils still idly spinning on the floor.

“Oh, oh, of course, sorry,” he waves a hand and the white circle disappears and the room seems a little darker for it. He watches Crowley closely for a second, terrified that the demon will discorporate himself on the spot now that he’s free. Crowley gives the floor a grim look, tugging the quilt tighter around his shoulders, shivers beginning again.

“Look, I, I’m sorry, I know that was uncalled for,” Aziraphale starts, leaning into the middle of the couch, “I just, I haven’t seen you look like that, since…”

“Yeah, I get it,” Crowley bites out. “Sorry I scared you.”

Aziraphale huffs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, wondering why this is so difficult. Crowley gets up suddenly, and Aziraphale starts a little. “Don’t worry, too tired to do anything,” he grumbles, and pulls an old, threadbare coat from Aziraphale’s rack and slips his thin form into it. He shrugs the quilt back over his shoulders, looking frankly ill-put together, and considers the seating arrangement that’s left of their usual hangout.

After some consideration, he delicately takes Aziraphale’s usual chair, worried that it might be stiff or uncomfortable. It’s not, of course. He sinks in, and sighs.

“What do you want, Aziraphale?” Crowley says, and it’s that piercing look he can feel even with the glasses on again.

“What… What do you mean, dear boy?” Aziraphale has found himself rather sprawled on the daybed what with leaning towards and away from Crowley in turns, and begins to collect himself up.

Crowley puffs his breath up at his bangs, and considers the angel who almost looks like he’s playing the demon again with his bad posture. He smiles a little at that. “What do you want me to say?” he says softly, curling his fingers into the inside of the borrowed coat, bunching it around his hands. _Tell me what to do, I go to fast for you, what do you even want from me, what are we._

Aziraphale looks frankly lost at that, and begins stuttering in earnest. After a moment, he takes a deep breath, and shakes himself.

“I want to help,” he says, staring at his hands. “You’re hurting, but… you won’t let me help you.”

Crowley’s brow quirks at that, considering. Aziraphale’s posture is open, his palms up, legs relaxed. If his head was turned up with a relaxed smile, he’d appear to be meditating or praying. Crowley remembers the blaze of silver on the fringe on his mind, radiating concern and… love. His mouth does a complicated quirk and pull downwards at that.

Crowley’s starting to warm a little, so he releases his tight hold on the quilt a little, letting it hang loosely around his shoulders. “It’s not that easy,” Crowley says softly. “I can’t just…” he looks towards the blurry kitchenette window, “turn it off and on, you know.” He’s not making sense, and he knows it, and it’s all the more frustrating for that.

Aziraphale pushes himself up from the sofa, Crowley watching him warily. Aziraphale approaches him, and then sits down at his feet, which makes Crowley a little dizzy, really, the idea of the angel beneath him on the floor. “Do you trust me?” Aziraphale asks, and his eyes are glowing with poorly contained ether.

Crowley swallows a little thickly, his tongue seeming to have grown three sizes, terrified of where this is going. “Why?” he squeaks a little on the syllable.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs, and the glow dims. “When… at the park, I got a glimpse, you know.” He casts around for something to focus on besides the demon, and notes a deep scar in the wooden leg of his end table. He reaches out to thumb at it, smoothing it without really thinking. “You were terrified I was going to… kill you?”

Aziraphale looks up at him, and there’s a deep vein of hurt in that look that makes a million voices in Crowley’s head scream at him to make it right, _you upset him, fix it, FIX IT_. He sputters a little on the emotional heft just shoved into his body, and looks away helplessly, tears prickling down his cheeks again.

“I do,” Crowley says a little nonsensically. “I do, trust you,” he quickly adds. “It’s just, some things are so deeply embedded, you know?” He gives Aziraphale a watery smile. “Sometimes…” he starts, but he’s struggling to form the words around the wet pain in his throat. He switches tracks, trying again, “It’s not logical, of course. I just, you’re an angel, you know? And…” He exhales quickly, and claws at hyperventilating for a second before righting himself. “It’d just be a really cruel thing, but you know…” his voice is high, and tight, contorting the words. If Aziraphale were not raptly watching his mouth, or incredibly familiar with Crowley’s vocal mannerisms, he might miss the next bit, slurred and squeezed by intense emotions as it is: “That’s… that’s… life.”

The words hang in the air, and he can feel it tainting and poisoning it. He gives Aziraphale a smile which looks terribly out of place on his face, fervently wishing he could undo this entire day, this entire existence.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale croons, and Crowley draws back from the encroaching angelic hand and starts sputtering again.

“Now—I mean, now, now I mean, it’s, it’s ridiculous! I know, it is,” he laughs a little wildly. “And I, I mean…” he babbles a little more, before Aziraphale manages to clasp a hand on Crowley’s knee.

“It’s okay, my dear,” Aziraphale says, and for a second, the foreign grim sympathy on the angel’s face gongs fear in Crowley’s chest. He’s so sure that _that_ look on Aziraphale’s face means the dagger’s coming. “I have hurt you so much through the years,” he sighs, looking tired, his thumb rolling back and forth on his knee. “I can see why you might worry about that.”

Crowley gulps shakily, and his body starts shuddering heavily again. Aziraphale looks up sharply at the shudders, and finds Crowley’s eyes crimped shut behind his glasses which are rapidly falling off his wet nose, clutching his sides like he’s desperately trying to hold something in.

“Crowley, please,” his voice tender, and suddenly much closer than it should be. Crowley looks up, alarmed, and Aziraphale is so close that he can see the glitter of his eyelashes, the barest glint of stubble on his lip. “Even if God himself, the entire angelic choir, the whole lot, came down and _commanded_ I destroy you? I wouldn’t, I c-couldn’t,” his voice is low, dark, and possessive, and his hand is rough in Crowley’s hair, pulling his forehead to his lips.

Crowley keens a little at the touch, eyes unseeing and some part of him is desperately wondering how many times a soul can be obliterated in a day.

“I love you, dear,” he whispers, tucking Crowley’s head under his chin as he delicately picks the demon up and cradles him in his lap, sitting back in the chair. “I love you,” he kisses into his ear, and Crowley is Falling, plummeting into an unknown blackness. He’s pretty familiar with how that ends. “I love you,” Aziraphale whispers again, clutching the shuddering form closer to him.

He doesn’t mean to, but he’s leaning so far into Crowley anyway, desperate to help the quivering bundle in his lap. When he suddenly finds himself in St. James, he’s not terribly surprised. It’s not really a St. James he’s ever seen before though. It’s a terrible, wet night, the air thick with rain just shed. The sky yawns above him, but there isn’t a star in sight. He can’t even pick out the darkness of a new moon in it.

Crowley is beside him, quite suddenly, and he looks like the Crowley who had insisted on them raising Warlock together, his hair a little long, a little genderfucky thing leaning towards femme. Crowley smiles soberly at him, and for a second it could almost be normal, if not for the fact that he can still feel the sobbing figure in his arms elsewhere.

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Not-Crowley says with a voice that Aziraphale hasn’t heard in millennia. “He does love you, you know, but the idea that you could love him back?” Not-Crowley slaps his knee as if he’s just told a rousingly bad joke. “Ridiculous!”

“Who are you?” Aziraphale asks softly, feeling intensely wrong-footed, trills of terror on his spine at the heresy he’d just spewed referencing This Voice, even though it had perhaps been one of the most brutally honest things he’s uttered.

“Crowley,” he says, and the sprawled-out grin on his face could be nothing-but. “Or something like it. He’s uh, a little preoccupied at the moment though,” he claps Aziraphale on the shoulder like Gabriel did, and the angel starts. “Poor thing’s got it _bad_, and you just walk up and throw your heart in his face?” he cackles a little, crackling with intense energy, and begins walking down the footpath. Aziraphale follows a step or two behind, eyeing the shrubs, greenery, and fences as they begin blurring to black.

“You’ve got some things to learn, Aziraphale,” and the voice is Crowley’s again, and he just sounds tired.

“Let me learn, then,” Aziraphale says, quickening his step to catch up with him, hungry to see his face.

“You don’t mean that,” Crowley laughs, a beautiful, full throated thing, and he’s stunning in a black velvet gown, red hair tied up in a bun and pallid with all that white powder dashed on his face, mouth a crimson sickle that sneers at him.

Aziraphale reaches to cup Crowley’s face, and Crowley laughs at him a little, but takes Aziraphale’s hand and pulls it to his face. “Come on in, then,” he says, an air of challenge in his yellow eyes.

Aziraphale had been in Crowley’s body for about two weeks once. Heaven and Hell had taken their damn time to ambush them, but it had given them both time to learn how to behave in each other’s skin. Aziraphale had thought it might feel a little bit different, somehow, but all he felt was a mild annoyance at light when his sunglasses were off, and an urge to renovate Crowley’s flat with warmth, coverlets, and maybe some weighted quilts he’d recently read about. He was sure Crowley would love them, and they did come in a black that would fit nicely on his gray bed.

This time, he sees what he’d been missing. Aziraphale tends to feel dulled, somehow, like he isn’t ever getting enough stimulation, as embarrassing as that might sound to admit. He stuffs himself fit to burst with good food, and clothes himself in heavy layers, soothing himself and delineating out where his limbs are in space, where he ends and the world begins. Crowley has a desperately different problem, it seems. He lays, spent, and aching in Aziraphale’s arms, and even though he cannot take another scrap of anything, the world never stops. His senses splay out so much farther than they have any right; he can feel _everything_ within about a block’s space. The rough tongue of the neighbor’s kitten as she sits grooming on her owner’s lap, the hiss of an apartment’s faulty pipes, the claw of light desperately trying to get past his glasses, past his eyelids, deeper still. Crowley whimpers, helpless under the onslaught, but Aziraphale can also feel the warm, panicky thrum of love as Crowley senses Aziraphale’s arms around him, but he keeps grabbing it and tucking it away absent-mindedly, a habit so terribly well-learned that he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it.

Aziraphale is rocked back into his body with a shudder as Crowley realizes just what Aziraphale had been peering at in the tableau. Crowley’s shuddering again, panic or horror on his face, part of him trying to evacuate Aziraphale’s lap, while another part is trying to crawl deeper into him still.

Crowley is far larger than Aziraphale might’ve imagined, at least, sensory-input wise. But, well, he’s already decided what needs to be done, and Crowley hasn’t puffed out of his corporation _yet_, so maybe it’ll work. His wings thump out, and the chair helpfully accommodates the number of them. Aziraphale cradles Crowley tighter into himself, multiple wings shielding and curling around the two of them, smothering Crowley in his plumage. It should feel claustrophobic, but Crowley’s shivers still. His face is crushed into Aziraphale’s neck, arms and wings creating some other space where Crowley can sort through his jangling senses because all he can feel is the warmth of Aziraphale, the smell of green tea, mayonnaise, and that particular scent specific to Aziraphale, like a cedar forest just after a rainstorm, all around him.

Crowley had tried a desensitization chamber once when it had gotten bad, back when they’d been new. He’d had a terrible start, worried the water might be blessed because it was terribly warm to him. It had taken some significant fine-tuning, which he’d paid for happily, but he eventually got a secluded bath with no one else in the chambers around him. On top of all the other requests (cool the water, dim the lights), he specifically told them to leave him for a day. They’d been a little curious to experiment, honestly, so they’d let him soak. It had taken some time, but eventually it’d worked. He’d relaxed, breathed, and stretched out his hands without worrying about being trampled on by his own senses.

He had ended up stubbornly staying in there for a week, and he’d had to erase numerous records of his stay in the chamber. They’d called him incessantly for a number of years, desperate for more tests, more pokes and prods as to why he’d come out perfectly sane and pliant while most humans couldn’t stand more than an hour.

In a way, this is better. The scent of Aziraphale stings his nose and mouth, and a pale heavenly light creeps on the edges of his senses, anxiously tamped down by the angel. He tentatively relaxes, opening himself a little, worries flickering back and forth about how he was putting the angel out doing this, or could he keep holding him this tightly, or was it too much? Aziraphale lightly blows in his ear, causing Crowley to jump, and the angel laughs. _I could do this for eons if you wanted Crowley_, his voice hums in his head, and Crowley feels intensely warm, embarrassment and gratitude vibrating in him for a second before he exhales and lets it out. He’s too used up to hold the tension for too long, and looses himself in Aziraphale’s capable hands. 


	2. Chapter 2

As much as they might have liked, one cannot live forever in one moment. Eventually, Crowley feels put together enough to leave the angel’s arms. He stumbles out of the angel’s hold, and they have some quiet, tense conversation about nothing at all, Crowley desperately trying to get out of the bookshop and head home.

“Can I call you?” Aziraphale asks, worrying at the ring on his finger. He’s envisioning the yawning void he’s going to be left with when Crowley sleeps for a decade.

Crowley gives him a fond look, and Aziraphale really can’t fault him for wanting to sleep, the poor thing looks exhausted.

“Sure, angel.”

“When?” he asks perhaps a little too quickly. Crowley had given him a piece of his mind once when Aziraphale had persistently called him for an hour and a half until he'd picked up. He’d apparently been trying to sleep off a hell-hangover. 

Crowley looks a little pensive, rolling his shoulders which still feel remarkably limber. “A couple of days,” he shrugs.

“Splendid,” Aziraphale grins, only a little disappointed that the answer wasn’t “Tomorrow,” or “In an hour.”

* * *

The Bentley apparently comes when called, because Crowley hasn’t hardly left the bookstore, and there it is, parked in the usual spot. He drives home, wishing he was a little buzzed so he could ignore the large variety of jangling alarms in his head reminding him of all the lines he’d crossed today, the stupid things he’d done and had the audacity to _say,_ like, _out loud_.

He zones out completely, actually driving in traffic and not zooming about at crazy speeds. He’s so out of it that he walks into his neighbor’s flat, and only manages not to start stripping and falling into her bed by realizing there’s none of his protections or hidden compartments around the flat. It’s also a bit smaller, he notes, taking in the fairy lights, large collages on the modern walls, and a little camera set up in a corner of the living room. He’s heard her talking to herself sometimes at odd hours, and apparently the answer wasn’t a long-distance significant other or psychosis, just YouTube or streaming or whatever it was that kids recorded themselves doing these days.

He dizzily leaves her flat, relocking her door and lopes down to his with a sick longing for home. He strips haphazardly out of his clothes, only taking the time to settle Aziraphale’s coat on a proper hanger. Everything else ends up on the floor as he makes a beeline for the shower. He unwraps the bandage that Aziraphale had kissed into his palm, and lingers luxuriantly in the steam and heat for far longer than he has any right to. Once he realizes that the discomfort he’s feeling is related to a disappointment at the fact that the shower doesn’t feel as good on his back as Aziraphale’s masseuse hands had, he finally steps out of the shower.

He falls into bed, absent-mindedly closing his blackout curtains on the first rays of morning, and falls asleep. Not immediately, of course. After some frustrated retreading of the missteps of the day, his brain finally folds under the pressure of warmth, safety, clean skin and clean sheets.

* * *

When Crowley had said, “A couple of days,” what he’d really meant was say, three or four days. Give or take. Enough time to get a good set of REM cycles in. Crowley’s woken midday exactly two days later, his phone ringing continuously. He’s got most phone numbers set to ‘do-not-disturb’ when he’s sleeping like this, but he’d never do that to Aziraphale. What if he got himself into a near-discorporation situation again? Crowley knows that Aziraphale will not let him sleep once he’s started calling, too. He may stop for a few minutes to top off his tea, assist a customer, or sign for a package, but until Crowley answers the phone, he’ll be visited by the shrill rings incessantly.

He makes it out of his bedroom as the phone’s on its third ring, third attempted call. His head hurts mildly, not helped by the fact that he left his glasses in his room.

“’Lo ‘ziraphale,” he mumbles, eying his espresso machine. He’s probably going to go directly back to sleep after this, so caffeine is inadvisable. He pours himself a glass of tap water, listening to Aziraphale gush about some pastries he’d had the day before, how it looked like there was going to be a new set of ducklings at the park, how unseasonably warm it was for this late in autumn.

Crowley nods, and hums at the appropriate moments. He’s listening, but still trying to keep a foot in his bed so that he can easily fall back asleep.

“So, dear boy, thank you for letting me talk to you,” Aziraphale flushes, realizing he’s been chattering with very little input for something like an hour. It’s sometimes commonplace, if Crowley is a bit depressed or sleepy, or some other complicated set of factors which were never directly communicated to the angel. He supposes sleepiness is the culprit this time. “How are you feeling?”

There’s a long pause, and if he couldn’t feel Crowley through the phone line, he might vainly worry that Crowley had walked off and left the phone on. “Tired,” he finally offers. He’s not really… dealt with everything that happened last Thursday: backrubs, professions of love, deep comforting. He doesn’t feel ready to. Sleeping won’t make him ready to deal with it, but he’s hoping it’ll help with the thrum of exhaustion he’s been existing in for too long. Whenever he thinks about _how long_, his soul recoils… _no, no, too far back, just go back to bed and stop thinking about it_.

“Will you be going back to bed then?” Aziraphale asks.

At one point, the angel hadn’t realized how unusual it was for someone to sleep for days on end. He’d spooked a fellow bookseller once, grumbling about his friend who slept for months at a time. The bookseller had gotten very upset, thinking he was poking fun at a friend struck with depression. He’d spent some time learning about what sleep truly _was_ after that, and what was natural for humans. It hadn’t made him any keener on the prospect of the whole thing, but it had made him capable of turning himself off dreamlessly for a preprogrammed set of hours when he was acting-as-Crowley for those two weeks. He perhaps did not understand that 8.5 hours of light non-REM sleep wasn’t really the ideal situation for any human being, but Crowley wasn’t human and no one was really monitoring his brainwaves at that time, as interesting as they might have been to study.

“Mm, yeah,” Crowley says, voice musky with sleep and a small smile curls on his lips as he thinks about returning to the warmth of his sheets. Aziraphale can’t help but smile fondly as he can perfectly picture the thrum of pleasure on Crowley’s face at the prospect.

“May I call you again?” Aziraphale asks anxiously, after a beat.

“Of course, angel.”

* * *

Aziraphale dutifully calls two days later. It takes quite few more rings before Crowley makes it to the phone this time.

“Ah good, there you are,” Aziraphale breathes, glad that all of his worries were for naught.

“Mn,” Crowley mutters in the direction of the receiver, which is currently upside down against his ear. He’s not entirely upstairs at the moment, woken at one of those inopportune junctions directly in the middle of sleep cycles where his consciousness has hung up a “Be back in <strike>10-30 </strike>1 hour” sign. Something had just forced him up to the phone because that would stop the shrill noise and thus allow for sleep to resume sooner.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale barks, alarmed. “Is everything alright?” His vision blurs, suddenly consumed by visions of the sizzle of a minor herald demon, blood on his hands and Crowley so deathly pale as he desperately plugs bullet holes, or any other horrible mix of nightmarish fantasies blended with past memories that his brain can concoct.

Crowley doesn’t respond quickly enough for him. Even if he had suddenly started awake to say, “’M fine angel,” in a soft voice, it wouldn’t be enough for him right now. Without really thinking he’s leaping across the telephone lines and suddenly standing on Crowley’s countertop, panting and looking around wildly for the threat. Crowley doesn’t react, still holding the phone to his ear, eyes closed and body listing.

Aziraphale exhales softly, shaking his hands a little as he realizes he’s overreacted. “Oh dear.”

Crowley starts at the sound of his voice, and Aziraphale notices the awkward position he’s in: standing beside a few low, fat bowls of plants he can’t name atop Crowley’s granite countertop. Crowley, or at least, his corporation-sans-consciousness looks up at Aziraphale, who quickly hops down, embarrassed. Crowley apparently decides the appropriate actions have been completed and sleep can recommence, and walks back to his bedroom while Aziraphale takes a few steadying breaths, looking around the flat.

He honestly hasn’t been around Crowley’s flat very much. Well, besides the two weeks of forced impersonation. He had tried to sleep in Crowley’s bed, as would be appropriate should someone come at night; they would surely expect him to be there, but he just couldn’t relax enough to even _pretend_ to sleep. He felt like he was violating Crowley’s privacy far, far too much. He’d dozed 8.5 hours on Crowley’s couch, and given himself quite the crick in the neck. Crowley-as-angel had shoved a number of dark-gray pillows and comforters into his arms from a linen closet that Aziraphale had completely missed, rolling his pale-blue eyes and dressing his three-piece couch up as a daybed for him.

You see, Crowley usually shunted the angel very quickly away from the sordid sculpture and his plant room, relegating the kitchen and living room alone as places where they could convene. The bedroom had also been allowed, _once, _when he’d had to scrub off the remnants of his beloved-Bentley so that he could keep himself from cracking. Aziraphale had loyally stood watch in the bedroom, mapping the constellations out from Crowley’s large bedroom window and doing his best not to get caught up in daydreams regarding the demon’s complete, _salacious_ nudity just one room over. It was during that particular inner struggle (_another loss, I’m afraid_) that the angel managed to strike upon, perhaps, what Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy might mean for them. It had absolutely nothing to do with his desire to see this particular demon naked. _Probably_.

He can hear Crowley’s plaintive snores already, and shifts on his feet. He really _shouldn’t_ snoop, but well… maybe he just wants to ensure that Crowley’s got enough protections up. Just making sure, you know, can’t have him getting hurt by his own carelessness. Yes, that’s it. What if someone _else_ had been calling the demon incessantly and had jumped across the phone lines to him? He would be utterly helpless! Truly, it’s a good thing Crowley has someone like Aziraphale around to watch his back.

Aziraphale and Crowley’s styles of magic differ, unsurprisingly, especially in protections. Aziraphale likes sigils and words of power. Before the near-apocalypse, his shop had been inscribed with protections, but now, if you happened to be blessed with the Sight, your eyes might burn out of your head glancing at the shop because it’s utterly enflamed with protections now. He’s gone a little hog-wild with the protective sigils in every known, unknown, and forgotten language, and it appears that the shop itself may also be embellishing a little on the enchantments to boot (Aziraphale hasn’t really noticed that yet). He just keeps adding little bits here and there as he reads something that he thinks might be useful, or sees someone walking around in a coat without the vents cut open.

Crowley, on the other hand, prefers something of obfuscation. If you are looking for Crowley’s flat, you will repeatedly find yourself getting distracted, bumping into old friends, or remembering old errands that you’ve been meaning to get to but keep putting off. Crowley’s plant room is especially well protected, as he does barter occasionally, and completely banal humans have made some embarrassing attempts at robbing him. He doesn’t have enough room for all the new shoots and pups, whenever they arrive, and some of his plants are very rare and prized, so he pawns spares and kits off here and there. Two devil’s snares twine around the entrance to the glasshouse, and shift a little menacingly as Aziraphale draws close. He can taste the fear from here, and decides that Crowley certainly seems to have _that_ room covered.

The thing is, all of Crowley’s wards seem to be of the sort that keep you from getting _to_ the flat, and then make it harder still to find the demon _within_ the flat. If Aziraphale were not intrinsically linked to the demon somehow, he would wind his way around as if it were a labyrinth, desperately wondering how many modernistic rooms a demon could house in one Mayfair flat. But what if someone makes it past all that? Hastur and Ligur had, somehow. There seems to be little in the way of protection for an already realized threat.

After worrying at his ring for an embarrassingly long time, and maybe even dancing in place a little as he works himself up to do what he was going to do, Aziraphale paints two glowing sigils in Crowley’s living room. They’re beastly things; some of his best work, frankly. Sigils that would liquify an angel’s wings, burn a demon’s mortal body from the core outward, pull an occult being into an otherworldly rift should they step foot here and threaten Crowley. He seriously considers doing more, now that he’s started. It been like that at the shop, draw one and suddenly, he’s giddy on the rush of _doing_ something. The knowledge that _he _did this, _he protected Crowley_, is so much headier than protecting the shop. He manages to restrain himself, embellishing just a little, ensuring that the sigils will activate should someone come here with unkindness in their heart.

He takes a deep breath, though, and forces himself to stop here. Crowley would see more than two runes and would wrinkle his nose at him, “Angel, _really?_ Bit much if you ask me.”

“It’s cute, almost,” he’d sneer, “As if they’ll do anything to a real threat, hm?” He’d inevitably hate them, and poof them away with hardly any effort, eyes unkind behind his glasses.

Aziraphale finds himself a little short of breath and a little teary-eyed all of the sudden. _Hmm._

His head twinges a little, and he absent-mindedly rubs his temples. Maybe he pushed it a little hard, that was it. Goodness knows he has a lot of emotional _oomph_ to pour into something related to Crowley, and the sigils continue to blaze almost painfully bright even though they should’ve faded into obscurity by now. He waves a hand at them to remind them to fade, and they waft away into elsewhere like steamy vapor.

He notices a tiny bookshelf in the living room, and rushes for the distraction. He’s a bit dismayed to find that it mostly houses kitschy knickknacks, a few tiny pots of cacti and succulents, a number of old compact discs. After a bit of fingering through frail plastic cases, he finds two well-worn books of children’s stories which he recognizes from their time with Warlock.

He immediately heads back to his shop to check if he still has those first-edition Grimm’s tucked away. Crowley may not read for himself, but he’s certainly read _aloud_ to people, Aziraphale included. Could he, perhaps, convince the demon to read him some of the stories he’d read Warlock? For old time’s sake? Aziraphale can’t help but tremble, in fear or anticipation, he doesn’t deign to define.

* * *

Crowley is surrounded on all sides by a warmth that breathes Aziraphale. He arcs upwards into the possessive hold of so many wings and hands, mouth catching on flesh brushed by feathers, hungry for more. He begins to realize he’s dreaming, and that’s just a bit terrible because he doesn’t want this to end. Lust and sex in dreams are always so much gorgeously better than real life, just an aching, thrumming thing, always deliberately vague with no physical bounds; no strain on the elbows, no aching muscles, no wheezing, no knocking of joints.

He leans into it, consciously deciding to keep on dreaming, reaching out to pull Aziraphale’s shoulders closer, lean his head into the yawning crook of his neck and sway amongst the feathers. He sees the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkling with true joy, fingers curling stray locks behind his ears and then digging into the thick, long hair, massaging his scalp. He leans hard into the angel, and it feels so good, hands in his hair, fingers playing down his spine, hands palming his stomach and thighs.

He turns his head up into Aziraphale’s neck, and lays a gentle, featherlight kiss at his jawline, trembling at the _forbidden_. He brings his trembling hands up to return the favor of fingers carding through curls, and he’s shaking and overheating, whimpering at the love wafting off the angel as he stares into his glowing silver eyes, acceptance and maybe even something of a need in those eyes. Nothing so base as lust, just an acknowledgement, a tacit agreement: _yes, please_.

Crowley feels like he should be burst by this point, torn up by angelic holiness or something, but there’s something nagging at him. One of the hands in his hair nags at his earlobe, and awkwardly thumbs into his ear, and he grimaces. There’s… something he can hear faintly. He presses his head into his pillow, ire building as he senses the drool-damp of his pillow against his cheek. He’s waking up and there’ll be no more of Aziraphale’s hands fondling him, acceptance in his eyes. _Ever, probably_, he grouses darkly.

The sound doesn’t stop though. It’s ringing, he finally realizes, and he jerks into 100% awake in the span of a few seconds, panting. He’s thrown off his sheets in his sleep, fanned them around himself while also tangling his limbs in them. His body is arced around a mass of bedding, his feet, preternaturally cold, are tucked into the mass. One of his hands is a bit numb, bent oddly behind his head and dug into his hair, and the other is tucked close to his stomach where his sleep shirt has been pulled up in the commotion. His abdomen is warm and a little slick with sweat. He can’t help it, half-asleep as he is; he pushes his palm down over the needy tent of his boxers, and groans, shuddering.

The phone rings on and on in the background, not leaving him alone with his shame and lust. If he was still dreaming, he might’ve come that easily with just one direct touch.

He lingers for a second longer, wondering exactly how long Aziraphale will wait before storming his house. Some dozy part of his brain is whipping up a tale of Aziraphale finding him in this state and helping him finish the job. The ringing stops for a second, and he freezes, panicked. _Oh fuck oh no not like this_.

When the ringing begins again, he’s up and out of bed without really thinking. He rolls the phone into his hand, and tries to sound suave as he brings it to his ear.

“Zur—” he sputters, throat dry and improperly prepared for speaking. He coughs a bit, swallowing to limber up his throat. “Morn’,” he manages, and the clock on his microwave does pronounce that it’s 10:10 am, so it is actually morning this time.

“Everything all right?” Aziraphale asks, voice tight and apprehensive. _Fucking hell, mucked it already. _

“Yeh, just woke up ‘s all,” he starts up his espresso machine idly, pulling out his coffee grinder from a hidden compartment in the wall. “You’re calling early,” he leans against his counter, wincing at the cool metal of his dishwasher against his tense erection.

“Ah. Yes. Well,” he starts, stilted or startled by something. He takes a deep breath, and barrels in with enthusiasm, “I was hoping that I could entice you to take a break from sleeping, my dear.” He can’t see Aziraphale of course, but he can picture him wiggling, wily grin on his face as he says that as clear as if he were standing right in front of him, and it makes him hold the phone so hard to his ear that it hurts. _Fuck, I love you._

“Of course, angel,” he says, his voice gooey and fond. “What’re you thinking?”

He can hear the burbling of the water in the machine with his unoccupied ear, but the light on the machine still hasn’t turned green yet. He nicks the double-shot filter out from another compartment, and begins grinding up some coffee. The grinder has the good manners to be quiet while he’s on the phone.

Aziraphale sighs happily, and begins in earnest, “Well, you know that Italian restaurant we went to, oh, three years ago? We’d just come off a shift tutoring Warlock, I think, and needed a quick bite. But well, they were having some trouble, closing or something? You loved their garlic bread, I remember...” he trails off, focus fading. Crowley tamps the coffee in the filter a little indelicately, and loads it into the machine.

“Yeah…?” Crowley offers in an attempt to reengage Aziraphale’s conversational drive. He can’t really place the restaurant with such a vague description. They’d eaten at a lot of places on the way back to the angel’s shop after a long day of antichrist rearing. He gets on his toes again, handsing around in cupboards for a proper cup. He pulls out a dark green mug, so dark that it’s almost black, and thrusts it under the machine. He concentrates hard on the pull, willing his body to forget about lust and focus just on the here and now, dark liquid filling a darker cup. It doesn’t work, of course. If he’s still rocking a stiffy after all this chattering and panicking, it’s not going to go down _that_ easily.

“Oh, they’ve reopened!” he stumbles back into the conversational groove, “One of the sons or daughters took up the business, and it’s, well, I hear it’s even better than it was,” Aziraphale says with a sly, conspiratorial air, pleased as punch that a restaurant Crowley had liked was back in business, and without his help for once!

Crowley, with his body in the state it is, hearing_ that_ tone from the angel, his mind immediately jumps to the angel whispering into his ear like that, hand idly teasing at his belt buckle, fingers rucked through his hair... He shoves his hand at his mouth, catching and biting down on his fingertips to keep from making indecent noises. _Fuck fuck fuck this is bad I need to end this call right now fuck._

“Great,” Crowley manages, sounds pained. “S’pose I’ll pick you up at…” his brain is struggling with very basic concepts of time and space, consumed by the warring factions of lust and horror.

“Three will be fine. Are you alright, Crowley? You can go back to bed if you like, if you need—”

“No, no, I’m—it’s—I’ll see you at three, just need to uh, get some errands done, ‘s all,” he says, and grabs the espresso haphazardly, gulping it down without a thought for temperature or taste.

“See ya at three,” he hangs-up on the sputtering angel and slams his phone onto the counter, panting. If the phone were not somewhat magically conscious, it might have had the audacity to crack its’ screen at that.

_Well, this is new._ Well, no, that’s not entirely true. It’s actually quite old, all told. But something in the giant, carefully built wall between Here and There has cracked since that day in Aziraphale’s arms. He’s sincerely tired of hiding, masking his desire and love as something else, but this is so much _fucking more_ than he’s had to deal with. Sure, there’d been times when Aziraphale had worn some new fashion (_fucking knee breeches and tights, thought I’d discorporate from lack of blood to the brain_) and Crowley had to hide a swoon, but it was usually less… in his face, a little more innocent. He’d stare hungrily at Aziraphale’s collar as he toyed with his bowtie, wishing for _more_, but he didn’t picture himself biting said bowtie off his neck, and ravishing him right there at the Ritz. He had an imagination, certainly, but he knew no good would come from using it around the angel. He had the good sense to keep it in check.

Well, maybe he can’t anymore, and isn’t that a terrifying thought. Maybe he just needs a cold shower. He shivers a little, twinging headache teasing at his temples. He’s still _so tired_ even with all this. _Fuck._

* * *

Crowley spends most of the intervening time, besides a long, cold shower, tending to his plants. He makes a few calls because quite a few of his plants are flowering and pollinating naturally. Since the apocalypse, he just hasn’t had the energy to menace them properly. Also, he isn’t sure, but he thinks Aziraphale may have done something to turn their fear down a little in the two weeks he’d been in residence. It would be just like him to see his masterwork of self-flagellation and frown and gently twist things so that he’d stop hurting himself. (Truly, the angel hadn’t done anything of the sort, but Crowley’s got eons of experience in gently rewriting reality to continue fulfilling his low self-esteem.) Either way, just like everything else in his life at the moment, the plants are getting out of hand and he doesn’t have enough room for the lot of them.

He heads down to the Bentley around half two, and begins threading his way to the bookshop. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel at a stoplight, and grimaces at the state of his nails. He hasn’t painted his nails in a bit, and honestly, part of why he does it is because it hides the dirt and muck he inevitably carries around with him. It isn’t unsanitary, it seems to just be part of being a demon. Inevitably, his nails spot and yellow and chip and dink and just look terrible unless he lacquers them. He’d gotten lucky once after getting his hand run over by a wagon wheel and he hadn’t had to paint his nails for a month or so (Aziraphale hadn’t agreed with him there, grimacing at the bruised half-moons on his fingers).

He pulls up to the bookshop, and feels incredibly queer about seeing it this time. He’s filled with a daunting array of emotions: relief that it’s still there (yes, still), anxiety at seeing Aziraphale again, worry that his libido won’t behave itself. Aziraphale pops out of the doors looking a little flushed, and stumbles towards the Bentley before starting back as he realizes he’s forgotten to lock up. He carts around and struggles with the lock for a moment, gestures a little wide and cartoony. Crowley sighs and just lets himself feel the rush of warm love that suddenly washes over him at the sight of the beige-and-blue besuited angel.

“I was worried you wouldn’t show up,” Aziraphale blurts as he lets himself into the Bentley, and Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I wouldn’t show you up for dinner, angel,” he says, a little affronted. There have been times that he has, perhaps accidentally, perhaps on purpose, jilted the angel. He always made it up to him, though, rather effusively.

“It’s just, you were so brusque on the phone,” Aziraphale pushes forward a bit, and misjudges the space in the Bentley, or the size of his corporeal form or something, and ends up nearly collapsing in the demon’s lap.

“Ah,” Crowley peers at the angel curiously. “I uh, didn’t want to miss my soaps,” he lies awkwardly, assisting the angel in righting himself in his seat. It’s a stretch, but it could be construed as true, considering the shower. Aziraphale didn’t really like television much, so Crowley’s quiet admission to watching Golden Girls had not gotten him the shaming he’d expected. Since then, he’d occasionally trotted it out as an excuse, usually a real excuse, because he was more in the mood to stay in than go out and potentially rile up his overworked senses. Aziraphale had always honored it in the past, something soft and a little hurt behind his eyes that he hid well enough that Crowley didn’t quite notice.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, looking fuzzily out at the street. They haven’t moved yet, which is puzzling to him.

“Remind me where it is, angel,” Crowley draws his worried eyes from the angel, dejectedly assigning the angel’s reticence to him somehow fucking up. Maybe he’d put two-and-two together and was disgusted with Crowley for having such base needs. Or maybe Crowley had tripped and stumbled into some social faux pas, and the angel was giving him the silent treatment for being such a bore. Shame buzzing in his chest and stomach, he jerks the car into drive, starting forward.

Aziraphale isn’t terribly great with directions, so they end up circling the location three times before he realizes they’ve reached it. Crowley still hasn’t placed it in his memory, but he’s pleased that Aziraphale’s found his step again, happily babbling about how the owners are third generation, and you could really tell, and oh, if their wine selection was better, they’d be unstoppable!

Inside the newly-reopened restaurant is fairly dark and cluttered, paint cloth hastily tucked on a tray near the restrooms and ushers patiently, if a bit stiffly, explaining that they’re open in spite of renovations. Only a few of the tables are occupied besides theirs, but the spices do smell a little familiar to Crowley. He finds that for once, he’s actually just a tad hungry, so as Aziraphale titters with the waitress who he apparently remembers from last time, Crowley digs into the bread basket. The bread rolls are fresh, and the butter is pretty worthless, just whiteish and flavorless, but he enjoys pulling off soft, crusty hunks of white bread and slowly chewing his way through the yeasty denseness. It’s good enough that he’s closing his eyes, just chewing and smiling a little to himself.

“I knew you enjoyed the bread here,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley slits his eyes open a little to regard the angel. He’s leaned his head on the back of his hand and is watching Crowley with a rapt, quiet attention. Crowley swallows with a bit of difficulty, wondering how the angel puts up with his desperately devouring him eating all the time if it feels anything like this. “Yeah…” he says softly, and awkwardly pulls off another chunk and pushes it into his mouth. He’s not going to say no to attention from the angel, even if it does make him a little uncomfortable.

The waitress returns with a plate heaping with carbonara for Aziraphale and a small plate of chicken alfredo with garlic bread on the side for Crowley. He smiles a little fondly at that, memories finally excavated by the sight and smell. He’s very particular about food, and, frustratingly, he’s not always sure what will set him off texture or flavor-wise, but if he eats something that disagrees with him, he’ll shut down. He could recover easier from an angelic rejection, a brush of a texture that he doesn’t like, a pulsating neon light, but when he eats something that’s Wrong, he’s useless for a while, brain entirely and totally focused on berating him for allowing such a thing into his mouth, and memorizing all of the details of the encounter so that he’ll shy away from Italian restaurants for a few years, or rooms that are duskily lit. It’s bad enough that unless he’s very tired, like now, he’ll often just forgo eating when he’s out and about to avoid the chance that he’ll have to deal with the reverberating consequences of an overcooked noodle, or worse, a hidden chunk of banana in something that _shouldn’t have bananas in it what the fuck_.

He’d discovered that this restaurant was okay the way he usually did: stealing a bite or two from Aziraphale. So many restaurants had come and gone through the years that he’d honestly given up cataloguing them, or getting attached, at least in the case of restaurants that _he_ likes. He does keep track of places where the angel’s eyes roll back in his head in pleasure, and keeps them on speed dial in case of emotional emergencies. As he swirls an obscene amount of pasta around his fork, he finds that he is glad that Aziraphale _does_ take the time to keep track of them all, though. The alfredo sauce is not quite as thick as he might like, but the pasta is just a shade beyond al dente. It’s perfectly serviceable, and from him, that’s high praise.

Crowley manages to finish the alfredo soundly, and rather quickly. If he's hungry and actually enjoying food, he tends to eat it embarrassingly fast. Just another reason he’s not too fond of eating in public. He’s left with the two thick slabs of garlic bread, though, and idly offers them to Aziraphale.

"Why don't we get that in a bag for later, dear?" The angel is considering his second helping: more carbonara, a different dish (his usual choice) or perhaps dessert? Crowley demurs and nibbles on the bread. It is very good, but he enjoyed the pasta more this time.

Aziraphale sails through two more courses and a healthy slab of tiramisu while Crowley chews through the bread basket and several coffees. It's nearly five by the time they pay the bill and meander to the Bentley.

"Your place?" Aziraphale asks, looking a little dozy. He'd had a bit of wine with the bruschetta, but not enough to be truly drunk or even tipsy. The slight dizziness should be a bit unnerving but he waves it away in favor of admiring the long tunic Crowley's wearing today, a gray thing that’s thin and meant to be layered. It flows and flutters around his waist gracefully, and currently as he holds open the door for the angel, it's managed to adhere to his posterior, exposing the ridges of pockets in his tight jeans as they cup said posterior.

"Whatever you want, angel," he says softly, shutting the door after he tumbles into his seat. As he absent-mindedly readjusts his tie for perhaps the twentieth time that evening, he decides to ascribe the odd fuzziness he's feeling as being related to being doted on by the demon.

The drive to Mayfair is uneventful. Crowley frowns as Aziraphale trips coming out of the elevator and takes the angel's elbow as he leans into him. "Must've drank more than I thought," he gives Crowley an anxious smile.

The angel's arm and shoulder are warm against him, but they usually do have a pretty big temperature differential. Crowley wheels the angel over to his couch where he sits and becomes enraptured by the new bonsai on Crowley’s coffee table. Crowley has given him a few bonsai throughout the years, but inevitably Aziraphale has had to hand them back, slightly browner and no longer in such lovely, sculptural arches.

"You feeling alright, angel?" he asks, frowning at the blush on the angel's face paired with the mildly glassy look in his eyes.

Aziraphale takes a while to respond, and when he looks up at Crowley, he has to weave a bit to latch onto his face. "It's a bit cold in here, isn't it?" He plucks the shoulder of his coat.

Crowley frowns, considering the ambient temperature. He keeps it a little cool, it’s true. A bit of penance for being a cold-blooded demon, plus it makes cozying into bed that much more delicious. It’s never bothered Aziraphale before, and the angel keeps the bookstore a bit cooler than this sometimes.

“Not particularly?” he shrugs, and goes to get the angel some water. “Maybe you should try sobering up,” he offers the angel a modern, squared glass full of water. Aziraphale has trouble focusing on it, and when he goes to grab it, he ends up latching onto Crowley’s wrist instead.

“Like your wristlets,” he says, fondling the metal chain Crowley’s got around his wrist today.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s chest suddenly seizes in fear, and he finds himself ripping off his glasses and kneeling before the angel, desperately trying to discern what’s wrong with him. The angel still hasn’t let go of his wrist, and is awkwardly drinking from the glass as Crowley holds it. He can’t _see_ anything wrong with the angel, per se. He’s warm to the touch, yes, but he _always _is. Aziraphale lazily opens one eye to look down at the panicking demon, but something over Crowley’s shoulder grabs his attention.

“What’d you do t’ my sig’l?” he slurs a little with his lips still on the glass, looking wildly up at the wall where Crowley’s giant tv screen was sometimes.

“What?” Crowley snaps irritably, and looks behind him, expecting to see absolutely nothing. He stills, noticing the soggy protective sigil, melting down his wall. “Oh no. Tell me you didn’t.” He snaps his head around back towards the angel who’s busy looking indignant.

Aziraphale tries to start in on another bluster, but Crowley suppresses him with a withering look. He stands up, disentangling his wrists from Aziraphale’s clammy grasp and makes a wide, window-washing motion, removing the two sigils Aziraphale had painted a few days earlier. The angel squawks a little at that, but when he tries to stand up to give Crowley a piece of his mind, he ends up falling over sideways on the couch.

“Oooh, I really don’t feel good,” he mumbles, clutching the now-entirely dumped glass to his chest.

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs deeply, “_When_ did you do that, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looks up at him, looking like a schoolboy somehow, perfectly innocent and incomprehensive. “Don’t tell me it was back when you were in my body, I can’t have not noticed it for that long,” he falls into a separate piece of his couch. It’s very modern and modular, reconfigurable into all sorts of interesting three-part shapes. Crowley usually just leaves it as a three-piece couch, but right now he needs a seat away from Aziraphale, so one of the pieces obligingly separates off to the side for him.

There’s a long period of silence, Crowley tiredly watching the angel, waiting for a response, and Aziraphale watching him right back, quite fond of the fact that Crowley doesn’t have his glasses on.

“When did you put the sigil up, angel?” Crowley tries again, getting up and pulling the squared glass from his hands. Aziraphale’s surprisingly reluctant to let it go, but can’t put up much of a struggle with how weak he feels. “Oh,” he starts, realizing he’s been asked a question. “Sigil? Two days ago?”

Crowley returns to his fridge, pouring another glass of water for the angel. He’s trying to remember what happened two days ago. He was asleep, as far as he knew. There were vague, blurry memories of Aziraphale standing on top of his countertop. That couldn’t be right, though, could it?

He offers the glass to the angel, and as Aziraphale reaches for it, wobblily, Crowley frowns at him, finally seeing the point of contact on the angel’s skin: there’s a dusting of a rash across the knuckles of his right hand. Crowley grabs the angel’s hand away from where he’s grasping for the glass, and drops into a cross-legged position at his feet, hands beginning to massage out the spell he’s accidentally sicced on his angel.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Aziraphale tries to sound affronted, as if getting a hand massage were terribly taboo.

“What, you’re allowed to give me a backrub and a cuddle, but I can’t undo a curse you stupidly walked into?” He bathes his concern in annoyance: _It’s not like I was worried, or that I care. (But I do, do you?)_

“Oh,” Aziraphale flushes. “Wait, a curse?”

“Mmm,” Crowley’s boney fingers knead into his knuckles and _ooh_, that really burns actually. It also feels quite good, though perhaps it’s really not meant to. Aziraphale bites his lip, flushing deeply.

“Old thing. Before the apocalypse, when they got in the flat? I’d planned for it, yeah? Not enough,” he huffs, angry at himself. “I had this old curse, based on that plague we had to cure in, what, 1500-something?” Aziraphale winces as Crowley pulls his pointer finger forward slowly and deliberately, as if he’s pulling off a stubbornly stuck ring. When his hand finally pulls free of Aziraphale’s, there’s something reddish black in his palm which melts into his skin and disappears.

“Basically, figured, some angel or demon comes by, well, they love tossing out plagues and illnesses, right?” he smiles up at Aziraphale, achingly tired but still sly and forever frustrated by this stupid beautiful world, and the stupid ineffable bureaucracy on top of it.

“Well, let’s see how they like it,” he waves his hand a little, and the smell of hot cinnamon is so dense in the air Aziraphale can feel it burning his mouth and throat. “Wasn’t expecting you to try to help out,” he grumbles softy, methodically pulling and massaging his other fingers.

Aziraphale’s hand aches and tingles a little around his knuckles. His head has cleared a little with the quick shots of searing pain as Crowley pulls lumps of curse from him, but he still doesn’t feel particularly great: head’s a bit muzzy, throat oddly sore. He keeps quietly clearing it as if that’ll satiate the scratchiness clinging there.

Crowley works up to Aziraphale’s wrist and nips with his fingers at the soft tissue on the upper side of Aziraphale’s wrist, and then softly massages around the veins and bones on the underside, teasing his fingers under Aziraphale’s shirt sleeves. He ends by holding Aziraphale’s wrist, letting his thumb rock gently over the back of his hand.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale says, coughing a little at the catch in his throat. “Sorry—” Crowley waves off his apology, and motions for his other hand. Aziraphale proffers it without thinking. Neither of them speak for a period as Crowley focuses intently on massaging Aziraphale’s left hand, a little more delicately this time as he’s not pulling anything from him this time.

Crowley peers at Aziraphale, unfocusing his gaze a little to see exactly how much damage the curse has done. “Looks like you’ll get away with something like a flu,” he says, gently popping Aziraphale’s wrist and massaging into his lower-forearm a bit. “Don’t try to do any miracles for a bit.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods, and immediately regrets the motion as his vision swims. He rubs his eyes roughly, and Crowley makes a soft tsking noise.

“Y’tired, angel?” he drawls, peering up at the sagging form on his couch. It honestly makes Crowley a little glad to see, though he’s wont to admit it. He’s been forced to handle the angel through two bad magic influenzas, and the angel was an absolutely terrible patient. He never slept, constantly needed attention, something to do, and would inevitably fire off magic without thinking.

“I’m not sure why I didn’t see it,” Aziraphale is listing again. He considers the demon on the floor, lap very plainly available other than a wrist resting on one knee, twitching occasionally as if there were a musical beat somewhere that only he can hear. Aziraphale’s feeling very poorly, and can’t think very straight (or at least, he could use that as an excuse, should there be any squawking), so he pushes his weight forward to fall off the couch and lands ungracefully in Crowley’s lap.

“Oof!” Crowley jumps as the angel’s chin collides with his collar bone roughly, and clammy, hot hands clamor around him. He’d been terrified of his libido jumping to the fore in a situation such as this, but instead, he’s reminded of sickly children clinging to him, eyes half-lidded and puffy.

“Aw, angel,” he gently rearranges him in his lap so that his knee is not pinning his thigh, and his elbow isn’t within inches of his nose. He’s managed to cradle him slightly, one arm wrapped up around the angel’s back and the other under his knees. He rocks a little back and forth without really thinking, too well-practiced at this sort of thing.

“Would you read to me?” Aziraphale’s mouth has found itself terrifyingly close to Crowley’s ear.

“Uh,” Crowley barks out, jumping at the heat of the angel’s breath on his neck and the clammy closeness of it all. Aziraphale’s hand knots into his tunic as he jerks, narrowly missing a breast.

“Uh, sure,” he sputters, remembering the last time he’d read to the angel when he was unwell. Aziraphale had insisted on children’s stories, and he kept accidentally miracling the animals in the story into existence. Crowley had spent a few days chasing off animals from all over creation with Aziraphale pawing at the back of his robe the whole time, nasally apologizing until Crowley had snapped at him to _sit down and do not attempt ANY more miracles, angel, so help me G-SA-WHO THE **FUCK** EVER_.

“Let me get you…” his mind almost blacks at the idea of what he’s saying, “uh, let’s…” He gulps, heartbeat thudding in his ears and starting to feel a panicky twinge from being too hot, too close, _too much, what if he hears, can’t hide it well this close._

“Gonna put you in bed and get a book,” he states, robotically, and stands up with the angel in his arms.

Aziraphale’s stomach swoops as he’s carried, bridal style, into Crowley’s bedroom. He’d never been able to really articulate it before this moment, but the idea of being carried by the demon was apparently something he liked _immensely_. He hadn’t considered it as a possibility before, especially after a few very drunken, aborted attempts at being carried like this in the gentlemen’s club. One of the particularly brutish boys had only managed to get him hefted up with a fireman’s carry. Apparently, his soft sheen over a thick undercoat of muscle made him very tricky to bustle around. It had put somewhat of a damper on things because what Aziraphale had wanted, in his pale, twilit daydreams, was this: draped across a rakish hero’s arms, able to gaze lovingly up at said rakish hero as they purposely carried you to safety.

He gulps a little at the emotions smothering him, enthralled as he stares up at the sharp curves of Crowley’s cheekbones and jaw, drawn to extremes at this angle. Crowley has an odd look pinched in his brows, and the second he sets Aziraphale down he thrusts a pair of dark glasses over his eyes, sweat sheening on his face. “Right,” he says tightly. “What’re you in the mood for, Aziraphale?”

“Uhm,” Aziraphale says, because while he’s unwell and his filters aren’t working very well, he’s very aware that the vast number of things that come to mind as he asks that are, hm, inappropriate for the situation.

“I have a few Grimm’s… at the shop,” he starts lamely.

Crowley’s brow peeks over his glasses. He chuckles after a second, shaking his head with a fond smile on his face, “Let me see what I’ve got.” Crowley palms at his wall, looking for the correct seam with a little touch and feel. He presses in to release the compartment once he finds it. A shelf pops out, nearly clocking him, but he’s used to it, and jumps out of the way. Aziraphale looks utterly enraptured by this development.

“I thought you didn’t read,” he says shrewdly, trying to lean over to read the spines of the books on the hidden shelf, but he just falls on himself and curls some of the duvet up under his chin.

“You’ve _heard_ me reading, angel,” he shakes his head, then pauses for a moment, searching the angel’s face with anxiety prickling at him. Just that morning, he’d been having a very lurid dream in those sheets, and now Aziraphale was cuddling up with said sheets. The angel’s just looking at him fondly, no sign showing in his face that he was aware that the reason the sheets were a tad sweaty was due to anything untoward. He shakes himself. The angel’s fever will just offer more sweat to the thread count, and angels can’t smell _lust_. It’ll be fine.

He thumbs through his private collection, mostly poetry of the romantic variety. They’re the sorts of things he feels like reading in bed when he’s pining and forlorn (probably snuffling and upset). He’s quite glad that none of the spines are pointed towards the bed. Aziraphale keeps sinking into the bed a little, then blinking himself back awake. Crowley shoves the shelf back into the wall after a bit, which Aziraphale watches with fuzzy interest.

“You have those books from Warlock, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley tilts his head at the angel, considering.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “Don’t know if I want to read you books about you becoming the eater of worlds when you’re like this, though.” Aziraphale looks a little startled at that.

“Are they all like that?”

“Well,” Crowley sighs. “Let me look around.” Crowley takes a few steps away from the bed, and Aziraphale quails.

“Crowleyyyy,” he whines, “Don’t leave me!” Crowley’s only made it to the foot of the bed, beyond the angel’s limited field of vision. He flops back on the bed, head knocking at Aziraphale’s knees.

“I need to go look at my other books, angel.” His voice is muffled by a spare bit of duvet that’s somehow flopped over his face.

Aziraphale whimpers a little at that, shivering. He’s suddenly quite cold, and his head is throbbing.

“Here,” Crowley remembers something. He snaps and a hellish lead appears on the angel’s ankle. Aziraphale’s lead had looked rather like a glowing white lasso, made of the same stuff as a generic halo. Crowley’s is a snake, of course, with glowing yellow eyes and an adorable little blep that wiggles occasionally. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he pats the angel’s knee, but stops to consider him for a moment.

“You’re sweating all through your waistcoat.” It’s a statement, and it’s true, and he hates it because Aziraphale would not want his clothes to be in that state. Crowley rubs a hand through his hair, feeling a bit crazed and lost. He’s not comfortable making these sorts of choices for the angel. He gestures, wincing as he does so, and the angel’s in a pair of old-fashioned striped pajamas. Aziraphale sighs and gives Crowley a look of relief.

“Thank you, dear.” He’s still shivering, so Crowley snaps again and his bedding is no longer rucked all over the place but nicely tucked in around the angel.

“Back in a sec,” he kisses the angel’s crown without thinking. Crowley rushes around his flat in a bit of a tizzy, trying to figure out what he has ready and available that isn’t romantic, or depressing, and doesn’t include gamboling animals.

Aziraphale starts poking at the snake on his ankle after a few minutes, jangling Crowley’s senses as it pings him. He haphazardly grabs the first book of Harry Potter out of a dusty box shoved in another hidden compartment, remnants from their life with Warlock.

He pulls his throne into the bedroom, nearly ripping up his carpet when he attempts to force the thing in with too much force.

“That’s a bit gaudy,” Aziraphale sniffs at the throne. Crowley miracles him a small tissue box on his bedside table absent-mindedly.

“Take it or leave it, angel,” he sighs, sitting down in the throne and opening the Potter book. His eyes go a little soft as he returns to the old illustrations, the bookmark here where Warlock had asked Nanny to read a section over and over again. The boy had been quite fond of the series, and Crowley had as well. A chosen, neglected boy who ultimately suffered quite a bit, but in the end, persevered for good? It had rather struck a chord for both of them. Neither of them really fully agreed with how the whole last book played out, nor with Rowling’s rather curious darning of the story after it’s full release. Crowley had accidentally introduced the boy to literary analysis, railing on about death of the author and how they could make of it what they wanted, _damn it_. Aziraphale had been incredibly pleased when he took up his role as tutor. Crowley had already laid out so much of the groundwork for him!

Aziraphale is watching him raptly, face pink and glassy eyes wide. Crowley smiles a little, and begins to read, only barely not slipping into Nanny’s brogue out of habit.

* * *

Crowley stops after _The Goblet of Fire_, because his voice is nearly gone. It took him a couple of tries to miracle away the miniature sphinx Aziraphale had conjured as he described the maze (perhaps Harry Potter had not been the best idea, there were quite a few animals in it for a sick angel to accidentally produce). He’s so tired that he’s been forced to take off his glasses. His eyes hurt, open or closed, and the light weight of metal and glass on his nose had become too much on top of the low, continual throb behind his eyes some number of hours ago.

Aziraphale is dozing, fitfully. He’ll blink out for a few minutes, then pop awake suddenly, hanging on Crowley’s every scratchy word. He’s been out for perhaps five minutes, and Crowley is spacing out, brain desperately snatching at a few nanoseconds of sleep.

He coughs a little, and decides he should go check if he has something citrus-flavored that would soothe his throat. He thinks there might be a box of orange and ginger tea stuffed back somewhere. Maybe.

He stumbles into the kitchen, and some part of his brain that’s too suppressed by exhaustion is glad that it’s currently something like three in the morning, so the metal and granite doesn’t gleam at him. With a little groping in cupboards and falling over himself, he manages to find the tea. There are two bags left, and he ends up dozing on his arm waiting for it to steep, so it’s a little strong.

He winces as he returns to his dark gray room, because he’s given the angel a nightlight, bright-red and shaped like an elephant for some reason. It’s currently turned on, and Aziraphale looks at him balefully. He’s grateful the angel didn’t nag him through the lead when he woke up, but he doesn’t have the voice to say that at the moment.

Crowley thunks into the throne, toeing away the four Potter books he’s already read-aloud. He keeps his eyes closed against the light, drinking his tea in silence.

“You look tired, dear,” Aziraphale says, fiercely wishing that the duvet he has curled under his chin was the demon. He’s starting to feel a bit better: his brain isn’t too hazy and he doesn’t feel too cold at the moment. The bed’s terribly comfortable, and it still smells like anise and cinnamon and something… he’s starting to think the _something_ is related to his serpentine nature. It’s earthy, but not unpleasant.

“Mmm,” Crowley says, not opening his eyes, and still drinking tea. Or at least, his mouth is on the lip of the cup, and he _could_ be sipping. He might have just fallen asleep again.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” Aziraphale asks, coloring his voice with punctuated innocence.

Crowley’s eyes snap open at that, yellow with thin slits of black. “Angel?” he husks, voice only somewhat soothed by the tea.

“You look terrible, darling. You need to sleep. How long have you been reading to me?” Aziraphale feels a pang as he realizes that it could have been _days_ of this, Crowley utterly unable to say no to him. He’d amend that with _in this state_, but honestly, it was a constant problem, in _any state_.

Crowley’s eyes tick slightly above his head, a trace of guilt slipping over his face, and ah, well, that answers that, hm?

“Dunno.”

“Please, Crowley, don’t do this over me,” Aziraphale pushes a hand up over his face and through his hair. Crowley watches him, unblinking, continuing to sip his tea. His eyes are rimmed with red, and instead of having bags under his eyes, his already stark cheekbones seem to have extruded, stretching the skin taut over the arches and curves housing his sinuses and eye sockets. It makes him look skeletal.

Aziraphale hefts himself out of bed quite suddenly, and Crowley’s sleep-deprived mind can’t keep up. Aziraphale takes his cup of dregs and sets it on the end table, and then gently guides him to the bed. “Can’t,” Crowley protests, going stiff as he’s pushed towards the bed, “You need to rest.”

Aziraphale gives a put-upon sigh, and shoves the demon onto the bed roughly. “You do realize it’s a king, don’t you? You could fit _three_ of us on here.” Crowley lays there for a beat, not comprehending anything other than _warm_, _cedar_, _mine_. After a moment, he realizes Aziraphale has shoved him there and is probably expecting him to move so that he can join him. He scrambles over to the other side of the bed a bit numbly.

“’M not tired,” he whispers into the pillow he’s already cradling, “’s fine, angel, you need rest.” His eyes manage to slit open, regarding the angel as he stands over the side of the bed that he’d been laying in. If Aziraphale trusted his magic, he’d snap and tuck Crowley under the covers.

After a moment, he sighs, and slides back under the sheets, body oddly heavy with illness. As he settles into the bed, he can’t help but notice that Crowley goes tense, his breathing tautening. His eyes are unfocused, staring holes somewhere above Aziraphale’s elbow. _Don’t think about it, too fast, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think._

He's so focused on not fucking this up that Aziraphale’s hand curling into his startles him so badly that he flails and almost falls off the bed save for Aziraphale lunging up to grab his shoulder.

“Angel,” he whispers, voice a shade louder than a whisper and it hurts. Aziraphale smiles a little, gently readjusting his hand so that the clasp is still comfortable for both of them.

It’s not the first time they’ve held hands, Aziraphale’s enjoyed it each time. He’d expected the demon to be a bit warmer, or perhaps clammy. He’s always a bit cool, hands a little dry, maybe even chapped. There’s something more intimate about it this time: holding hands in Crowley’s bed, Aziraphale’s other hand dug into Crowley’s shirt, steadying him. Crowley starts shivering a little, and oh dear, that’s _definitely _not what he was looking to cause.

Thankfully, the angel doesn’t even consider unlacing his fingers, either due to selfish enjoyment or surety that with time, or exposure, the tremors of anxiety will ease.

“What’re you doing?” Crowley asks, staring blankly at Aziraphale’s shoulder. The striped pajama shirt has been pulled around in idle dozing and fussing, and he can see the faint outline of a collarbone, small curls of white peeking out lower around the stressed dark blue button.

Aziraphale looks down at where their hands are intertwined, considering. He feels a leaden ache in his chest, turning molten and pressing upwards towards his mouth. _Say it, you coward. _

“I want to be close to you,” Aziraphale says, softly, squeezing his hand. Crowley makes a soft noise, deep in his throat, that sounds like a hurt animal. He winces on it, swallowing thickly. Aziraphale’s so transfixed by his thin lips wincing over his teeth that he has to withdraw his right hand from the demon’s shoulder so that he can worriedly rub at his own lips, lest he accidentally smother the demon with them.

“Okay,” Crowley says, softly, all breath and no voice. He leans forward, a chorus in his head squalling a cacophony, and gentles his head on the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale slowly lowers them both to the bed from their sitting position, and Crowley’s tucks himself in, making himself small against the angel’s chest. Aziraphale releases his hand from the demon’s as he realizes the gift Crowley is giving him. Crowley snuggles into the angel’s chest, curling his knees up, tucking an arm in to his stomach, and drawing the other, shaking, around the angel’s back.

“Okay?” he coughs on it, but manages to stay still somehow, curled up in his lap like he had been that afternoon in the shop.

Aziraphale’s hands are shaking a little too, but he wraps an arm around the demon’s bony back and snakes an arm under Crowley’s shoulder, digging his fingers into his hair. He’s always wanted to do that, and he can’t resist now that the opportunity’s arrived. _Just imagine if it was longer_, he thinks, pulling Crowley’s head under his chin. _Maybe he’d let me braid it? Brush and shampoo it? Dig my fingers into it?_

Suddenly, intrusively, a fantasy of his surfaces out of nowhere: Crowley looking up at him with his hair long and splayed around his head like a russet halo, smiling happily and reaching for him. He bites his lip and begins humming absent-mindedly, determinedly retracing the story Crowley had just been reading to him in his head.

Crowley shudders a moan against Aziraphale’s neck as he pulls his fingers, slow and luxuriously, through the long bits up top. Crowley immediately forces himself to still, barely managing to contain the urge to push himself away from Aziraphale. Aziraphale doesn’t quite hear the slurred “sssorrry.”

_Interesting_. Aziraphale idly draws his fingers through the shorter bits of the demon’s hair and the tense thing begins relaxing into him. It doesn’t take long with Crowley so exhausted, and Aziraphale gently, if a little awkwardly with the angle, massaging his neck and scalp and _humming_, bless him. Crowley ends up sprawled across the angel on top of the covers, deeply asleep and comfortable, warming both of them greatly. Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s sweat this much in millennia, but in a way, it seems cleansing. He would say _yes, _and _come closer_, a million times more, even if meant lying in bed with a mild headache, sweating, because there was the love of his life draped across his body. It’s not what he’d dreamed of, _exactly_, but it’s wonderous, nonetheless.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley wakes slowly, awareness coming in small bits. The coolness of air on his lower back; he absent-mindedly pulls something up or down to cover that. Faint light creeping through his curtains as a low-breeze trickles through his room. The smell of hot chocolate swirling in from his kitchen.

He slowly blinks awake, shards of pain announcing themselves and then melting a little around his sinuses and neck. He wriggles, considering if he feels like making an attempt at sleeping more. The headache will just get worse, though, and he could easily medicate this one away. He stretches out fully, spine popping all the way down his back with the effort. He groans, collapsing back into his bed for a second until he hears a shuffling noise from his living room, and stiffens a little.

As he tastes the air, all he can really sense is Aziraphale. It doesn’t spook him as much as part of him thinks it should. He boots himself from the bed with a bit of effort, and grimaces at the sweaty state of his body and his sheets. With a sudden fit of manic energy, he whips his bedding up, stuffs it into a hamper, and stumbles into his bathroom.

He palms some painkillers, quickly undressing, and pauses for a moment, considering his tub with suspicion. It has been used recently, and not by him. His shampoo and conditioner are awkwardly balanced on the edges of the claw-footed thing, and a bar of soap he’d tucked away and forgotten is sitting in a soap dish that he doesn’t recall owning. He _had_ been blackout exhausted last he remembered, but if he’d taken a bath, he wouldn’t have woken up in bed.

He’s had a tub in almost every home he’s had, though he doesn’t prefer taking baths. Or, well, he liked taking baths just fine, but he has a tendency to fall asleep in them. He’s woken up too many times to an ivory room stuffed full of unfamiliar humans and a priest ready to read his final rites, all incredibly startled by the demon sputtering and coughing awake. He was very pleased when people finally developed indoor plumbing and showers, allowing him cleanliness and warm water without the fear of dozing off.

He plucks his toiletries off of the tub and hustles into the shower after a moment, quickly scrubbing down. He mindlessly shampoos and conditions his hair, and doesn’t really notice that it has tumbled down to his shoulders until he’s out of the shower, brushing it back. He squints in the mirror, wincing at a nasty tangle that takes a few tries to calm out. His hair sometimes just… grows, suddenly two feet long and frizzing because he hadn’t been smothering it in the appropriate oils, because hell, it wasn’t _there_ the last time he’d showered. Usually it’s because he’s pushed himself too hard, performed a Big Miracle that will be frequently scrambled and ascribed to an angel, _some_ angel, we just, hm, we don’t really know _who_, um, let me get back to you about that, document’s gotta be here somewhere.

He doesn’t remember performing anything too heroic miracle-wise, though. In fact, he’d been running on fumes last he remembers, completely incapable of getting rid of Aziraphale’s creations. He shakes his head, deciding not to think about it. He considers lopping it off for a second, eyeing up his bony reflection now surrounded by thick red locks. He shrugs, deciding he can always cut it later, and begins threading the remnants of his conditioner through it. He’s going to need to buy more hair products at this rate.

He finishes by braiding it back loosely, and finds himself at a bit of a loss, because in his rush to toss off his sheets and shower, he’s forgotten to bring in a change of clothes with him.

He eases the door open, and peers out. There’s no angel in sight, so he quickly dashes to his dresser and dresses himself haphazardly. He ends up in a baggy, dark green sweater, and somewhat loose (for him) dark blue jeans. He stuffs his scaled feet into fuzzy socks, and pulls his curtain back to peer at the noise. It’s raining quietly, drops occasionally dotting against the window with the wind.

“Ah,” he jumps as he hears the angel at his doorway, “You’re awake.” Crowley’s stomach drops at how pleased and familiar the angel looks, hair tousled, winged mug in hand.

“And, my, your hair!” the angel grins, blushing furiously and looking a little embarrassed at the same time, as if he had something to do with it. Crowley smiles wanly, and goes to lean against his windowsill and completely misses it, tilting sideways and bonking his head against the cold window pane.

“Oh dear, come along,” Aziraphale laughs a little, tugging the demon away from the window by the shoulder. He leads Crowley back into his den, now clustered with a number of the angel’s things. There are two small towers of books on his granite countertop, and a breadknife sitting on a crumbed cutting board.

“How’re you feeling?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley surveys his changed domicile.

Crowley turns his espresso machine on, stepping away from the angel, and fishes in a few cupboards. “Better,” he answers, pulling out the large box of orange and ginger tea. He fishes out the last packet with some trouble, and stuffs it into the black mug drying on the rack.

“You’ve been busy,” he muses, surveying his washed dishes and sparkling countertops.

“Well, you’ve been asleep for six days,” Aziraphale smiles, seating himself on a barstool he’s modified with a crimson cushion and a small rest that sits mid-back. Crowley quirks an eyebrow at the angel’s sitting arrangement, and pauses, remembering a snake that he wrapped around Aziraphale’s ankle.

“Oh,” he gasps. “You, I-I’m sorry,” he snaps, releasing the angel.

“No, no, aw, it’s fine,” he huffs, sipping his cocoa with a suppressed smile. He’d been enjoying his snake anklet, truth-be-told. “I was able to leave and go to the shop, the grocer, it wasn’t any bother.”

“Ah,” Crowley says, pouring hot water into his mug. “You’re feeling better, then?”

“Oh yes,” he nods. “A few days ago, I accidentally miracled a book from falling, and it was fine. Clean bill of health,” he smiles and makes a motion encompassing himself.

“Good,” Crowley nods, starting to miss his sunglasses which are gods-knows-where. 

“I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been taking the shop deliveries here,” Aziraphale motions towards the books on the countertop. Crowley shrugs a little noncommittally. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone,” he considers the lip of his mug, something soft behind his eyes.

Crowley clears his throat, uncomfortable with how considerate the angel’s being.

“I, uh, was thinking,” Aziraphale starts, rapidly glancing at Crowley’s face and then his cup a few times, trying to stir up the courage to speak his thoughts. “I really appreciated you taking care of me,” he nods, all earnestness. “But…” he pauses, looking away and sighing.

“What?” Crowley barks sharply, stomach dropping, terrified that he’s mumbled something in his sleep, or groped him, or something else that he hadn’t even considered which could be construed this way or that.

“I wish you wouldn’t push yourself like that,” Aziraphale says softly, eyes brimming with emotion. Crowley’s emotions suddenly push against his throat in response, wet and hot, and he has to look away.

“Like what?” he grouses after a moment, plucking anger and annoyance from the lot available. He stalks away from the angel, pulling open his fridge as if he expects there to be food in it. There is, for once: a half loaf of bread, some sort of sandwich-makings at the fore, and a cluster of hardboiled eggs in a compartment where the butter might sit in a normal person’s refrigerator. His bourbon, wine, licorice, yogurt and instant-drinks are still there, just pushed around a bit as the angel’s pulled out and put away things throughout the past week.

Aziraphale sighs, watching him, chin on his palm. “Like… reading to me until you’re so tired that you can’t stand… and you have no voice left.”

Crowley stiffens, just a little. He pops a hardboiled egg out from the container, and heads over to his trash to begin slowly peeling off the shell.

“Like taking five bullets for me that one time,” he continues, eying the damp red braid curling over the cable-knit emerald sweater. “Like walking on consecrated ground, then driving me to the shop with burning feet.” Crowley’s hardboiled egg is not peeling very easily, and he’s pelting the tiny pieces of shell into the bin with vigor as he manages to extract them. “Getting a hole punched through your chest by a horse, that one was _completely_ unnecessary,” he sighs, hand rubbing through white curls and eyes going distant as he starts piecing together just _how many times _Crowley has put himself in harm’s way for him.

“Maybe I like it, angel, you ever consider that?” his voice is thick, stabbing at light-hearted, and he sniffs a little as he returns to the sink, washing off the remnants of shell and membrane from his egg. He thrusts a pair of sunglasses on his face from _somewhere_ as he turns around. “Demons and danger go hand in hand, you know,” he gives him a lazy smile that just manages to make him look tired.

Aziraphale is glaring at him, legitimately frustrated, and it makes Crowley a little giddy. _Ah, I know this tune, I can handle this._

“I don’t think you do it because you… enjoy it, Crowley,” Aziraphale grits out, hands gesturing, so frustrated that he might throttle the demon were they closer. _Please, take this seriously. _

Crowley grins at him, strained but delighted. “Oh?” he smiles, and bites a half off of the hardboiled egg. Normally, he’d swallow it whole, but there’s something thrilling about making Aziraphale watch him slowly chew through the dryness of the yolk before he can continue the conversation.

“Why do I do it then, angel?” he smirks and slides down his counter a little, his hips and shoulders cast at a jaunty angle, leg tapping idly at the cupboard he’s leaning against. It’s affected, and stylish. Crowley did not invent the idea of _devil may care_, but he’s quite good at it, nonetheless.

Aziraphale makes a frustrated, disbelieving noise, and stares very hard at Crowley. _Because you love me, you idiot. _

Crowley’s bouncing leg stills, and he nearly drops the remainder of his hardboiled egg. He looks away from angel, coughing on the emotions tight in his throat. He stuffs the rest of the egg in his mouth, and shoves himself away from the counter silkily. Aziraphale recognizes the pattern: he’ll turn around with some non-sequitur, and then offer to take him to lunch somewhere nice as an apology for ruffling his feathers. _We don’t have to do this anymore, why are you still playing this game?_

“I love you,” Aziraphale states, clipped and clear, and Crowley freezes mid-twirl. He had been about to spout something about how getting clocked by a horse hadn’t been so bad (better than riding one, arguably), and maybe having a few extra holes punched through him gave him a new perspective on life, eh? Made him a little more… holey? Eh?

The last time Aziraphale had said that, it had been under duress. At least, that’s what Crowley had smothered his hopes with. Aziraphale had just said it because he’d been hurting, nothing more, nothing less. Just a soothing mechanism, little white lies, like _don’t cry, it’ll all be alright_. He’s not sobbing in his arms this time, but standing up in his kitchen, not emotionally or physically compromised. It hits him like meteor, crashing through his skull and burying itself deep in his gut.

“Angel,” he says softly, grasping at his countertop as if it were a piece of driftwood bobbing in the ocean. 

An idea occurs to Aziraphale, suddenly. “Why don’t you respect yourself like you respect anything else that I love, Crowley?” he starts forward earnestly, thinking of how protective and thoughtful the demon was of his books, his food, his likes and dislikes. “Please,” he bounces a little, buoyed by the wonderful idea that he’s just struck on. If Crowley could just take that concept and apply it internally, it’d be great! If the countertop weren’t so long, he’d be grabbing Crowley’s hands where they were dancing anxiously, clasping and picking at one another.

“Mnn,” Crowley’s chest hurts so badly that he thinks he might be having a heart-attack. Aziraphale quirks his head, noting the paleness of his skin and the way that his fingers have elongated into claws, digging into his wrist.

“Crowley, please this is exactly what I mean,” he whines, and pulls Crowley’s hands away from each other. His right hand has black and, now, dripping claws. His left wrist is mangled and bleeding quite freely on the countertop.

“Oh,” Crowley’s head buzzes a little, startled at the spectacle in front of him. “Sorry,” he says, feeling like he’s somehow viewing this happening from perhaps five feet behind himself, a little to the left.

Aziraphale sighs, and snaps, producing a medical kit from somewhere. He rolls up the sleeve of Crowley’s sweater, which had thankfully already been pushed up, and begins doctoring the claw wounds. Crowley watches him, feeling cold and slowly slotting himself back into the human-shaped space draped on his countertop, being ministered to by the angel.

Once Aziraphale wraps the wound in bandages, he walks Crowley over to the sink and washes his still clawed hand without speaking, humming a little distractedly. He takes one of Crowley’s towels, upping the fluff-quotient significantly, and begins slowly drying off his hand. He’s meticulous, making a massage out of it, and slowly Crowley’s hand returns to its human shape.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbles again, pushing his glasses up so that he can rub at his eyes with his other hand. There’s an exhaustion at his core which is so deep that he could sleep forever and it would still press at him, _aching._

“Aziraphale,” he says, and the angel’s blue-gray eyes slowly move up to his. He smiles a little as he reaches the unguarded yellow, and he gently plucks the glasses up from where they’re painfully falling out of his hair.

“What are we?” Crowley asks, eyes cast downward, picking at the loose loops in the terry cloth. It’s deliberately vague and open-ended, the sort of question that Aziraphale could take one way, tittering, “Oh, well, an angel and a demon, obviously!” and then they’d be back where they used to be, easy-footing. It would absolutely wreck him, as it always has, but at least then he’d _know_.

Aziraphale’s eyes goes somber, and he takes Crowley’s hand and draws it to his cheek, sighing in pleasure at the touch. Crowley softly curls his fingers around his cheek, thumbing at the frown plucking at the angel’s lip.

Aziraphale looks up at him, pain and longing in his eyes, “Whatever we want to be, Crowley.” He squeezes Crowley’s hand where it is on his cheek, and Crowley takes a step closer, helplessly. He lets his fingers draw back into his hair, eating up this vision, as if the hand there was not his own. _I must be dreaming; this can’t be real._

He's leaning forward, just a bit. Aziraphale’s lips are like a magnet, pulling him in, but he stops himself from getting too close, going too fast.

“What do you want it to be, angel?” his voice is whisper-soft, and even though he’s forcing himself to _stop here, stop, stop, _the need is unmistakable in his clipped syllables and fever bright eyes.

Aziraphale sighs, closing his eyes to just enjoy the feel of Crowley’s hand slowly warming on his cheek. It feels like he has a roaring ocean in his chest, and he knows that he’s not going to say this right, but he has to say something.

“Anything you’ll give me,” he whispers in response, opening his eyes to the tail of Crowley’s braid curling over his shoulder as he leans forward.

“Angel,” Crowley whimpers it like he’s just thrust a sword through his gut, mortally wounding him. His yellow eyes are swimming with emotion: yearning, aching, love, and so much more. Aziraphale can’t take it anymore, so he bridges the gap between them, rushing forward, pressing their lips together so hard that their teeth bark against each other through their lips.

Crowley hisses a little at that, and Aziraphale digs a hand into his hair, pressing his body closer as Crowley’s body arcs away. It’s sort of a chaste thing, just lip-to-lip, but they’re both trembling and awkwardly trying not to push too much, or too little. Aziraphale stumbles away suddenly when he feels Crowley’s tears wetting the place where their lips are joined, and rubs at his own lips awkwardly.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale sputters. “Sorry, I should’ve asked,” he gestures a bit wide, jittering with energy.

Crowley steps back, and his body shudders terribly. He’s having trouble breathing, lungs heaving for breath with the tremblings of a taut whine on the inhales.

“I love you,” he whimpers, yellow eyes glowing in his face. He suddenly collapses to the tiled floor, gripping his cupboard handle with his good hand. “I love you,” he rasps, looking up at Aziraphale in wonder, as if he can’t believe his own mouth. He feels like lightning should be cracking down at them, the roof of his flat peeled off and a holy finger searing at him, the pain of rejection for something so inextricable to him (_again_).

“I know,” Aziraphale replies, kneeling next to the demon, holding his head in his hands and gently canting it up. He kisses Crowley’s forehead, and the shudders still a little.

“Too much, I suppose?” Aziraphale laughs a little, sinking to his knees. He wants to kiss the wrinkles next to his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his neck, his…

“Sorry,” Crowley retreats from his hands, ducking away.

“Please, Crowley, don’t run away from me,” Aziraphale’s voice cracks. “Please let me help you, _please_.”

Crowley stills, obediently, and looks up at the angel guiltily. “I’m going to mess it up.” His voice is so soft that Aziraphale shouldn’t be able to understand him.

Aziraphale smiles, tears crinkling the corners of his eyes, “I’m sure we both will, my dear boy.”

Crowley almost looks close to accepting it at that, something like hope flickering in his eyes. Then, his eyes flick away, down to the floor, and he frowns.

“You’ll fall,” his voice is thick with emotion, and he ducks his head away from him, making himself unreadable.

Aziraphale is beatific, glowing and crying, consumed by the being he loves most of all. He blinks away tears, and gives the demon the benefit of considering the consequences, though he’d really rather _damn _them at this point. He feels out the edges of his divinity for cracks, fluffs his wings a little, peers in places he hasn’t particularly kept up over the millennia. The problem is that his love of Crowley has been a part of him for so long, a slow but inevitable build throughout the ages. It’s intricately woven into everything, even in his divinity. It was there before he’d doubted, heart-sinking as the Metatron pronounced that God would not be providing the deus ex machina he’d been hoping for. It was there when he was young, delighted with Earth and her inhabitants, even the quirky, snarky demon who danced around him, just out of grasp.

If he fell, it would not be due to loving a demon. There would be plenty of reasons, but ‘Crowley’ and ‘love for’ were most certainly ticks in the ‘good’ and ‘heavenly’ columns.

“No,” he shakes his head, smiling a bit defiantly behind the tears. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Crowley gulps, terrified, as perhaps the last shield he has to hide behind crumbles away.

“Didn’t you say something about us being ‘on our own side,’ anyway?” Aziraphale sinks to the floor with Crowley, pulling his legs to the side of him so that they’re closer to an even height on the floor.

Crowley coughs, his attempt at a bark of a laughter failing spectacularly. “S’pose so,” he mumbles.

“What are you afraid of?” Aziraphale whispers, and he’s too close again, nearly a hands breadth from his face. Crowley starts back, seizing on his blue-gray eyes, suddenly reminded of something he hasn’t wanted to think of for eons, stuffed repeatedly away in a padlocked box.

“Uhm,” he says, eyes desperately devouring Aziraphale’s very _not_ sickly green eyes_, they’re gray, they’re like the sky, don’t think about it_.

“Look, maybe… maybe we need a word or something,” Aziraphale sighs, retreating back on his haunches, away from Crowley. The demon’s breath had hitched and hot terror had consumed his face for a second when he had realized how close the angel was. It made Aziraphale’s heart hurt to see, but well, they both had problems, things to work through. And now, he supposes, they even have time to begin working through them. _Together_.

“A word,” Crowley jeers, voice dark, “Like a safe word, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale raises a prim eyebrow at him, matching his sneer with contempt. “Yes, I suppose so. Something so that instead of,” he sighs hotly as he sees that Crowley’s hand is itching at the bandage on his wrist. “Instead of hurting ourselves…” he forcibly removes Crowley’s hands from one another, “we can communicate that we’re overwhelmed.”

Crowley looks at his hands, palms curled up in Aziraphale’s grasp. The white bandage has pinked a little with his mussing.

“Ah,” Crowley’s lip quirks up a little. “Suppose they were big on consent in heaven?” he arches an eyebrow at the angel drolly.

Aziraphale pales at that and releases him. Crowley gets up fluidly using the muscles of his legs to suddenly piston himself upright. He takes a few steps away from the angel, and leans against his counter, crossing his arms, closing himself off. He takes a deep breath, wanting to snarl and snark, lash out at the angel because he’s poking at sore spots. He can’t stand hurting him, though.

“What word, then?” Crowley huffs, staring blurrily at his flood lights.

“I… suppose we’ll have to think of something,” Aziraphale falters a bit. He’s pushed himself up off the floor, dusting his knees, and keeps leaning towards Crowley as if to take a step forward, then weaving back.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley rubs a hand over his face. Aziraphale doesn’t respond, audibly at least. His shoulders sag a little, and he pulls himself into one of the bar seats around the countertop.

“D’ya think…” Crowley starts, staring out from between his fingers blearily. “Can a demon discorporate from exhaustion?”

Aziraphale gasps a little at that, concern deepening. He drums his fingers on the countertop anxiously. “How do you mean?”

“Humans can die from lack of sleep, sure,” Crowley gestures a bit, idly. “But we don’t need sleep. So… I suppose not then,” Crowley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. Humans got to look forward to the end of mortality, a nice bookend where the exhaustion stopped. He’s starting to think he’ll always feel like this.

“I…” Aziraphale starts, and quails when the demon looks at him. There’s something of the skeletal exhaustion he’d seen six days ago present in his face.

“It might be depression?” Aziraphale squeaks it out quickly, as if by speed he could somehow soften the blow. He’s suspected it, for a long time, certainly, but he’s always put off reading about it for fear that more of the pieces would fit together. He would inevitably blurt something out, accidentally snark about a potential symptom at an inopportune moment. How do you tell your best friend (potential lover) that you were pretty sure they’d been suffering from depression for millennia?

Crowley actually smiles at that, and starts laughing dryly. “Depression’s part of the job description, Aziraphale. Every demon’s depressed,” he finally pulls his hand from his face and settles it back around his middle with the other. “Some just hide it better than others,” he sighs, and gazes over at the angel who’s busy looking desperately worried at him.

Crowley can say it now, so he does, “I love you.” Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles, and he looks like he might cry. “I…” he sighs, rubbing his elbows as if he’s chilled. Telling the truth makes his teeth hurt, somehow. “It doesn’t seem real,” he says softly.

Aziraphale laughs a little at that. “I suppose we should take it slowly.” Crowley can tell by the mild grimace tucked behind his eyes that he isn’t pleased with the idea.

He wants to say sorry again, but he stops himself. “Guess it was just a bit much,” he rolls his head a bit, cracking his neck. “Gotta wean a starving man back to life, you know,” he gestures a little, hoping he’s making sense.

Aziraphale nods his head a little at that, conceding the point.

“How are you feeling now?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley lazily drags his eyes over his face, mining for more details to fill out the cracks of that question. He could assume the angel was referring to his caring-for-the-ill exhaustion, or his more recent admission of his existential exhaustion, or his jolt at their close contact… or he could ask? He could just ask now.

“How do you mean?” he asks stiffly, squinting. It’s uncomfortable, something new.

“Are you… less overwhelmed? Should I leave?” he gestures at the space between them. “I… am I making it worse being here?”

Crowley’s eyes crinkle a little at that. “Mmm,” he considers it. “You love me,” he states it, softly, as if it should burn his tongue. “Of course you want to spend time with me, angel,” he smiles warmly over at the angel, but his eyes aren’t in it, aching loss and sadness thronging there. He can see it, them together, happy. He wouldn’t have all these issues holding him back. They’d be in bed already, learning each other’s forms. It would be glorious, and perhaps even a little bit dull to be so simple and happy. He could go for dull, he thinks.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Aziraphale sighs, pushing himself out of the chair.

“No, no,” Crowley turns his thin hips towards the angel, but doesn’t make a move to get any closer. “I’m still processing it,” he makes a motion to stop the angel, keep him here.

“Then I should give you the space to process it,” Aziraphale nods firmly, and begins to turn away.

Crowley exhales tightly, crushing his palm against his forehead. “You know… I was so sure I w-would…” he inhales deeply, unable to complete the thought. “You would never know. I’d never say it,” his voice is rough. “I just had to tie it down inside of me, so you wouldn’t be bothered by it.” He sniffs, and rubs at his eyes.

Aziraphale audibly grumbles, canting a hip against the counter and looking annoyed. He bunches his sleeves around his hands, and rubs his own arms, smothered by the need to rush over there and comfort the demon. “We couldn’t before,” he replies tightly, “They would’ve killed you.”

Crowley barks a laugh at that, “Yes, I’m sure the holy choirs would’ve rejoiced as well.”

“You’re not being entirely fair, Crowley.” Crowley looks at him, face shadowed by his hand. Aziraphale looks flustered and pink, his coat wrinkled where he’s mussed it.

“Uhm,” Crowley mumbles into his hand, reality reasserting itself as he notes the angel’s ‘getting-ready-to-leave’ stance, along with the myriad of books and other belongings idly tossed around his flat. “D’ya want me to drop you by the shop?” He doesn’t really feel up to driving, but the Bentley could take over sometimes, especially to places it was very familiar with going to.

“I’ll manage, thank you dear,” he sniffs, and turns to go. Crowley listens to his front door open, but it doesn’t close. Aziraphale pokes his head back in the kitchen, concern on his face, “Call me, please, Crowley.”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley smiles, a thin film over a chasm that aches.

* * *

Crowley tidies up, just a little. The angel had kept to the kitchen and living room, mostly, while he was unconscious. There’s a new watering can sitting next to the devil’s snares, bright green and painted with a sun and rainbow. Store-bought, Crowley figures, because the angel would’ve made something beige and probably hefty, made of metal. His plants aren’t in bad shape, considering. The angel has never been especially great at plant-care, so he’s allowed to worry a little.

He has to drain two of his cactuses carefully, and snip back a few dead leaves off of a rubber plant. The plants are a little ruffled, confused at the state of events. Gossiping about _is that his angel? _And _will they finally get together? _As well as more banal things that he’d really rather not hear about, like various plants being, hm, _in the mood_.

Crowley decides to really dig into the gardening. He hasn’t really had the time or energy lately, but right now? Right now, he’s vibrating with anger and frustration, at himself, at Aziraphale, at the past stuff he—_don’t think about it_.

Shouting at plants had been therapeutic for him for the past half-century, but ultimately, he always goes back, cooing, urging a sad, dying thing to unfurl, and bloom. Today, he manages to be neutral, in spite of the anger radiating off of him. No shouting, just quick, surgical slices to separate off pups, repeatedly checking soil compositions, narrowing his eyes at specks of discoloration, angrily tossing cracked pots out of the room so that he can replant the plants in newer, more pristine ones.

He'd woken sometime around 11, and now it’s nearing 7 pm. He stretches his shoulders, and figures he’s going to have to shower again. His braid has gone loose, flecked with potting soil and vermiculite, and he’s got a myriad of sooty smears on his face and over his sweater. He’s wearing a glove on his injured hand, though he’s usually not one to bother with them when he’s working with his plants.

He sends out a few texts, stating that _the plants are finally ready for pickup, sorry for the wait_. He’s not expecting any responses until tomorrow morning, really. He’s tired, but he doesn’t really want to sleep, for once. He pushes off of the table, and delicately removes the glove and his wrist throbs in response. He’s basically ripped out everything but the veins and nerves, digging at the bone beneath. Still functional, but if he was human, he should probably be resting it, getting surgery or something.

He leaves the bandage on while he quickly showers off the soil and angry sweat, and clumsily replaces it once he’s out of the shower. Clean and warm, he’s starting to consider sleep, even though he knows he shouldn’t (he’s just going to dream about it). He nearly goes to fall on the bed, but stops. He still hasn’t put new sheets on his bed. _What a mess I am_, he huffs, dragging his hamper to his washer and dumping it in. There were rules for how much soap or softener you were supposed to put in it, but he generally just kind of pours some in and waves at it and it figured itself out.

He pulls out a set of clean sheets, black with crimson lining, and begins feathering his bed. He realizes that one of his pillows still smells like Aziraphale as he struggles stuffing it into the pillow case. It smells like cedar and petrichor, lightly tinged with his shampoo which just hints at aloe or something else faint and green. It was probably a result of Crowley sleeping on the pillow for so long mixed with Aziraphale’s feverishness, but he could daydream that this might be what the angel smelled like after using his bath.

He does his best to ignore the tears in his eyes as he puts the pillow back on the bed, and sighs. _We could have this, already, if you weren’t such a fuck up._

He wrestles with the idea of going out, getting rip-roaring drunk, taking someone home, or getting taken home, and just… forgetting about it. Stuff it back down. He can only do that when his senses are a little more in tune, though. He’s still not very keen on leaving his house, wincing at the idea of people potentially touching him or looking at him. He flops into his bed, helplessly drawn to it as if by gravity or inevitability.

He lays there for much of the night, not sleeping, just thinking _don’t think about it_, _don’t, don’t _but he thinks about it. In detail. He doesn’t want to, but it’s there, playing in his head like a film reel that he can’t turn off or stop going over, again and again and again.

He can smell it still, smothering his nose, something spicy at someone’s table a few spaces over mixed with a not-faint-enough mélange of body odor. The bar had been redolent with heat from the day, just barely beginning to cool down as the night stretched before them. He’d gotten a letter from Aziraphale that morning. Post was… ineffective in those days, especially with sending things across continents like they did. Their letters got to each other mostly due to their own expectations that they would arrive at some point, invariably.

The arrangement was just a twinkle in their collective eyes at this point. Aziraphale had started the letter-writing, penning to him occasionally as the mood struck him. He liked having someone else he could talk to about his joy at this invention, or this bright young upstart who might change things forever. Crowley’s letters in response were usually short, musing on an artist or politician he was molding, or griping about humans destroying something of intense, irreplaceable value. He always made up for his brevity or joylessness by including something with his letters: a bottle of mead, a bundle of pristine papyrus, or a small capsule of iron gall ink in a soft, blue-gray shade that reminded him of the angel’s eyes.

Occasionally, Aziraphale would write rather obviously that while I’m absolutely, concretely, telling you that I’m going to be _here_, please make note of this other location _here_ instead, completely unrelated and not significant at all. It was a very pedestrian code, and it could’ve gotten them into terrible trouble if anyone actually cared to look in on them.

Crowley was stuck in India this specific time, waiting for a demonic shipment that would never arrive, destroyed by a swell of the Ganges. He’d been hanging out long enough that he figured he could just go visit Aziraphale straight away. Well, the angel had declared he “most certainly wasn’t in China!”, so it won’t be a _day_, but he could start meandering over that way. He’d ducked into this bar on a whim, just wanted something to burn his throat and maybe rub elbows with people a little. He wasn’t always so desperately antisocial.

He gets sucked into a conversation, lost to time, with a person here or there. He had been here for a few months, and he may have gentled a fever, smoothed away an outbreak. The people in the village noticed his kindness, and they reflected it back upon him in spades. He winced a little at their words, but humans wouldn’t understand if he protests too much when it’s clearly true. He’s leaving soon, so he just tries to get through it with a tense smile. The conversation breaks, and he turns to the bar, and stops short. This part is in exquisite detail, he can’t forget it, no matter how much he might try.

Aziraphale sits at the bar, back hunched, cluster of white curls a little damp with the heat. He’s not glowing, and seems almost human, toga dotted with sweat. _I should’ve known, it was so obvious, why didn’t I notice_.

Crowley walks over to him, dreamlike, even as the current version of himself rails, drowning in sweat, hands knotted in sheets: _nonono don’t, don’t, please._

He gentles a hand on the tired shoulder, and smiles kindly, “What are you doing here?”

The eyes that turn towards him are sullen at first, violently swamp green, and the floor drops out from under his scaled feet as he realizes his mistake. Aziraphale, or, _Not-Aziraphale_, quirks his head, eying Crowley up, suddenly incredibly interested.

The next part is blank, a blur of too many things happening at once. His body remembers some of it. Being cowed back by someone larger than him. Someone behind him, grabbing him, and then something heavy wrapped around his head, smothering him.

He comes to, later, tied to some sort of chair in a dim, dank room. Beelzebub is there, something long, black, and lethal-looking in palm, buzzing with something intense in their eyes. He isn’t sure what he’s done, other than it's something _bad_, swallowing against the rush of bile that threatens with the throb of his head.

“Do you know this incubus?” Beelzebub asks, pointing at the Aziraphale-shaped thing eying him up like a school tough. _Oh no_, Crowley quails, _oh fuck oh no this is worse than I thought. _

Incubi and succubae had come around sometime early, pre-Christ. They weren’t there originally, though some would like you to believe so. Crowley knew one or two who liked to pretend the _original tempter _persona was theirs, leering, but he never bothered do anything about the infringement, especially after this whole encounter. The first succubae were demons, ones who liked taking a personal, very fine and detailed hand to their temptations. Most demons didn’t understand lust very well, unfamiliar with the urge, so the bulk of the incubi had been drawn from human souls. When most souls went to the other side, the lack of a heartbeat, a muscle-driven engine keeping time, doured them, and they wilted and stilled without time’s constant beat in their chest. Others were transformed by their deaths, freed from the too-tight, ill-fitting cages of their bodies and came to the other side _hungry_. The first of these had been fashioned into these creatures, beings who could tempt and wile their ways into anyone’s heart, head, bedroom, or more.

The thing was, everyone had believed that demons and angels were immune to an incubi’s wiles. They had no sex drive after all, no innate urge to reproduce. If they looked at a succubus, they might be seized by a _feeling_, something reminding them of the blaze of love before the fall, or a caress of benevolence. But feelings for God have no place in such a creature, so it would fade quickly, replaced by disgust and an angry, buzzing loss.

Crowley honestly wasn’t the first demon or angel to look at an incubus and see… someone, someone lost, someone desired, just out of reach for a being such as themselves. Crowley was just unlucky enough to be the first to be caught.

The incubus was not interested in helping him dance out of this particular quagmire, and he earned a number of broken bones for his initial lies. Over time, the questions change, as do the tormentors. He’s stopped saying anything, just numb and quiet, and he has been for some time. It makes the minor demon overseeing his torture extremely frustrated, pushing him harder just to get _any _noise out of him.

They call in the incubus again, the same one from the bar who’s a little tired, a little cracked, a little… _off_. Incubi are wired with an urge to please, fulfilling their snares’ desires and wildest dreams in their efforts to fulfill hell’s temptations. Crowley doesn’t want Aziraphale to hit him, or snarl at him, especially not now. He’s mostly consumed with a desire for _someone, anyone, please_ to get him out of here, hole him up somewhere where he can heal, develop a plan, _something_.

The minor demon had expected a seduction, a different tack from the corporal punishment they’ve been doling out. He starts a bit as the incubus hauls back and punches Crowley so hard that his chair crashes backward into the floor. The incubus clamors down over Crowley, pulling his blood-clotted hair painfully back from his face, “Just tell me,” Not-Aziraphale’s voice was high-pitched, almost girlish, “What do I look like to you? _Who am I?_”

It’s what they’ve been trying to get out of him for the past bit of time. He was too reluctant to tell them for it not to be interesting, or perhaps even useful.

Crowley blankly watches Not-Aziraphale raise his fist in threat. The words _Aziraphale_ and _angel_ had been swelling at his lips, threatening to bubble forth along with the froth of blood and scales and bone. He’s burned them out of his brain to the point that he’s having trouble pulling them up as he stares at those familiar (but not) green eyes. This creature had asked him a question, and he should answer, right? This creature that he knew so well wouldn’t want to be forced to be hurt him, he couldn’t do that to him… whoever he was.

His eyes twitch over the white curls, the dim light of the room behind his head giving him a false halo.

_What do I look like?_ echoes through his mind, working sluggishly with pain and blood loss. He licks his bloodied lips, and whispers, “_Fair-haired_.” It hangs in the air, charging it with electricity. The minor demon gawps, clipboard forgotten, considering the pair on the floor, and the dim light that had most certainly flared a little when he spoke.

“Again,” the incubus’ girlish voice sparks heat on the word, and he draws closer to Crowley’s face. All Crowley can see is eyes with pinprick pupils, consumed by bubbling green.

“_Fair-haired_,” he repeats, and he doesn’t understand why it’s not enough. The creature on top of him forces his mouth onto his, too hot, tasting of a peat bog on fire. A hand closes around his throat, pinning him there, as if he weren’t already helplessly tied to the chair.

The minor demon rushes off, desperately looking for Beelzebub, Dagon, _someone_ who might understand this word that hurts his ears somehow. Eventually he runs into a fellow minor demon, and they begin bringing in humans, thinking it might be a human language. Crowley’s been on Earth a long time, after all.

Crowley repeats it, numbly, vision slowly retreating to blackness as the incubus gets more excited with each repetition, pinning him harder. He’s vaguely aware of a flash of heat at his throat at some point, and blackness consumes him.

When he comes to next, he’s not in a chair. Aziraphale is gone, and so is the minor demon, Beelzebub, and anything else from that horrid, close room. He’s lying on one of the sacrificial altars that Lucifer was always trying to repurpose, and speak of the devil, there’s Lucifer himself leaning over his feet, idly picking at something under his nails. His aura is painfully bright and Crowley groans, shifting away.

“Ah, Crowley,” he hums, voice smooth and pleased. “Heard you’d gotten yourself into a bit of trouble.” The smile he gives him is chilling, somehow. Crowley shuts his eyes, willing himself somewhere, _anywhere_ else. It doesn’t work with the runed strap around his naked stomach, just making his headache that much worse.

“I hear you’re speaking in tongues,” Lucifer continues, taking the last few steps up closer to Crowley’s head. He’s brighter this close, and Crowley can’t hide from it even behind his eyelids. “But, you’re not, are you?” he’s suddenly breathing on Crowley’s neck, _too close_.

Crowley whines, leaning away and jerking against the bonds, but Lucifer slams a giant palm down on his chest, pinning him.

“I’ve always liked you, you know,” Lucifer croons, softly, and Crowley quails under the palm that’s large enough to encompass his entire ribcage. A gigantic thumb cradles over the side of his ribs and grinds over one of his breasts, roughly, and he jumps and shudders as it rolls over the bulb of nerves there, breathing hard through his nose.

“It’s a great thing you’ve discovered, Crowley. Everyone’s quite pleased,” the smile he gives him is humorless, not quite reaching his eyes. “Beezlebub’s been missing for a month, and every incubus is booked out for a century. We can’t recruit them fast enough,” he rests his chin on his other palm. The thumb of his pinning hand idly rubs in the center of Crowley’s chest, ruining his hold a little.

“But, Crowley,” he returns his eyes to Crowley’s face, eyebrows knit. “You know Enochian?” his eyes are cold, threat ever-present, “and you didn’t tell me?”

Crowley whimpers, leaning away from the palm around his middle. “Crowley,” he calls in warning, fist closing too-tight around his ribcage.

“Di’int know I knew it,” he croaks, eyes on the high, rough-hewn ceiling, wishing he was anywhere but here.

Lucifer watches him from under his eyelashes. After a moment, he tilts his head on his palm, and hums a little. “I suppose we were pretty rough with you.” He withdraws his hand from Crowley’s chest, and brushes a few blood-encrusted locks from his face roughly.

“Poor thing,” he purrs, radiating false concern. “I’ll make sure we get a couple of _fair-hairs_ to look after you,” he leers, so close that Crowley can see that somehow, the glow he radiates comes through from the back of his mouth, even through his nostrils, highlighting awkwardly placed fangs in his soft palette and gums.

He blacks out when Lucifer removes the runed strap, and the only salvageable memories after that are blurred images of demonic healers attempting to revive him, until finally he’s brought before the draftsman for a new corporation.

Currently, he’s shivering terribly in bed, sheets pulled to and fro in his anguish. He’s going to have to change his sheets, _again_. His scales have rubbed right through them in places, and his claws have managed to dig random holes throughout the fabric. He’s chilled at the moment, and decides, perhaps inadvisably, to take a bath. He refuses to bathe with his hands as claws, though. He’s managed not to claw _at_ himself through the night, mostly, and considering how much it sucks to have self-inflicted gashes, he’s starting to figure he should probably make a rule not to do it. It’s usually entirely mindless, though, something that just happens whenever he feels like he’s floating just a few feet outside of his corporation. His fingers have been itching with sharpness all night, and he’s raked a red score across his chest twice as he went over Lucifer’s pinning him again, and again. The third time, he forces himself to think of Aziraphale’s face, a halo of sunshine around him as he does something banal, like eating an ice cream, or reading the paper. It helps, a little, and he just digs his claws through the duvet instead.

He spends some time breathing deeply, and finally he’s mostly flesh again. Scales a bit all over the place, but he’s not particularly sharp anywhere. He draws the bath, scalding, and slips in with a shiver. He cleans himself, and then sinks back. It’s not a surprise when he slips under the water, and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale is doing something of a deep clean. He has to do _something_, possessed by worry and anxiety as he is, helplessly fretting about how terribly the one relationship he’s relied on for eons is unravelling around him. He’s read an embarrassing number of romance novels, honestly, and in the majority of them, a relationship built on long-term pining would blossom into something beautiful (and carnal) once the walls separating them broke down.

Perhaps that’s too good to be true, though. Part of him keeps worrying over the idea that maybe… Crowley isn’t interested in this? There’s a number of ways for two people to love one another. Maybe Crowley just isn’t sexual, or isn’t interested in something beyond idle friendship. He could be fine with that, honestly, he’d just… it’d take some adjustment, was all.

_But I’ve seen him_, he grouses, rubbing hard at a spot on the floor. Both of them had partaken of sins of the flesh, unrelated to their temptations and miracles. He’d stumbled on Crowley sometime in Greece, passing by without his knowledge. He’d nearly hailed the demon until he realized he had a human with him. Crowley had been chuckling, plastering a woman with kisses, _let them catch us_, he’d whispered and they had rushed off, two senator’s wives whose hickies were absolutely not from their husbands.

Perhaps something had happened in the intervening time? He blows hair out of his eyes, and surveys the now sparkling spot he’s scrubbed out. It makes the rest of the floor look terrible around it. _Well, suppose I’ll have enough time to get the whole place spick and span at this rate._

_No, no, there’s no use in being angry with him, _he grumbles, and moves over to the next spot.

Maybe Crowley just isn’t interested in that, with him? No, that’s not true either. He’s caught the looks, especially when the glasses were not wrap-around. Once, Crowley had turned bright red and sputtering when he’d unexpectedly run into Aziraphale in a dress with a bustle at a party. He’d run away before either of them could deal with the hot tension in the air, and Aziraphale hadn’t bothered him about it. Crowley had not pricked _him_ about his hungry looks through the years.

They’ve done their time of _it’s not safe_, and now it is safe. Why isn’t it unfolding the way he had envisioned it?

His bell tinkles, and he starts. “Just a minute,” he calls, struggling to get back to his feet. He plucks off his cleaning gloves, and stuffs them in the pockets of his jeans. The jeans were from sometime in the early 1900s, a little worn and paint-chipped in places. He’d needed them when he realized he couldn’t clean the smashed carton of ink bottles in any pants that he had on the premises, and the ink spill had gotten _everywhere_.

He smiles a little, glad for the interruption, and then smiles for real when he sees that it’s Claire, a fellow bookseller here for her exchange. “Ah, hello, sorry about all this,” he gestures at the cleaning supplies, his white cotton shirt and jeans.

She chuckles a little, and shakes her head. “It’s actually kind of nice to see you like this. Proves you’re human,” she smirks a little.

Aziraphale laughs a little nervously at that, and sidles over to his desk. He’s exchanging a somewhat dour copy of _Paradise Lost_, his third best version of it. It’s got an interesting printing error in the third section of the book, but it’s a common one, not particularly diverting, just a misplaced article.

Claire follows him to the desk, and gently pulls a cloth-wrapped package from her messenger bag. He’s supposed to be getting a copy of _Don Quixote_, a few removed from the first edition, but in fair condition. He’s neglected Spanish literature, but was attempting to remedy it now. He was also considering digging into poetry as well after perusing a bit of Crowley’s collection while the demon slept.

They gently exchange their precious packages, examining each for flaws or signs of forgery.

“How is your husband?” Claire asks after a cursory review of the book. Aziraphale’s always been good about his exchanges, and has never attempted to hand over a fake, so she knows she doesn’t have to thumb through it too thoroughly. “Is he still travelling?”

Aziraphale stills a little. He’d first met Claire sometime in the eighties, and Crowley had been by the shop a few times then, helping him with a temptation or miracle, or honestly, just hanging around his favorite angel. She had smiled at them both, eying them interestedly, and he had recognized the look of realization on her face when Crowley brought in a box full of chocolate-filled croissants and set them gently on his desk with a fond smile and _angel _on his lips. The next few times she’d stopped by, she’d asked after his boyfriend.

“Husband,” he’d corrected without thinking, and then looked mortified at his own mouth. He’d explained that he travelled a lot for work so he wasn’t always around. She’d brought them each a paired set of cufflinks once, which Aziraphale had chuckled at nervously as he handed off. Crowley had immediately put them on without a thought.

“No,” Aziraphale says, now, still examining the book for defects. He’s a bit of a perfectionist, but he’s allowed, honestly, given the breadth of his experience with this sort of thing. “He’s…” he pauses, trying to figure out a way to describe what’s going on in a human way, “retired.”

“Oh?” Claire looks very interested at that, tucking a stray silvery hair behind her ear. She’s always been invested in their relationship, he knows. It’s easy for humans to squint at their foibles and assume things were delightful, always, no problems at all. He’s watched her sway through a number of relationships throughout the years and sadly, the longest one had succumbed to cancer a few years ago.

“How long has it been?” she asks, starting to look a little concerned with how much he’s interrogating the book.

“Oh, a little over a year, I suppose,” he gently places the antique book on the desk, and digs around in his drawers for his receipts.

“And you? Are you retired, too?” she asks, leaning forward on the desk. He’d told her once that his strange hours were partially due to another position he held opposite Crowley. He’s a little impressed that she recalls all of this, but some people were like that.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he smiles, smoothing the carbon paper where it’s folded and bent up from being haphazardly stuffed into the drawer.

“I’m surprised he isn’t here, then.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale nods, testing a ballpoint pen on a pad, and tossing it idly when it doesn’t work. “He’s taking some time to adjust.”

“Oooh,” she nods knowingly, “Some of them, once they stop working, they just crumple with nothing to do.” She pauses, looking out the window at something.

“Grace was like that in the beginning of her retirement,” she huffs, frustration and pain pricking at her eyes.

Aziraphale gives her a soft smile, nodding gently as he writes out the terms of the barter.

“He’ll be back,” she gives him a fortifying smile, and signs her side of the receipt in acknowledgement when he offers her the pen.

“I should think so.” That much was a given, but so much more was still up in the air. He roughly rips off the receipt and hands her a copy.

“Maybe you two should go on a vacation,” she smiles brightly. “Go back and visit where you first met, huh?” Aziraphale’s placid smile freezes on his face at the thought of taking Crowley back to the garden of Eden. He shakes himself, and haphazardly shoves the receipts back in a drawer without looking, creating a few more wrinkles in the carbon paper.

“Oh right, you met at work,” she snaps to herself. “Well, I don’t know. A cruise? Try something new?”

“I, uh, I am,” Aziraphale sighs, and thumps into the chair at the desk dejectedly. He’s not sure why he’s telling this to her, but sometimes these things just come out.

She looks concerned, pulling her sagging messenger bag back over her shoulder.

“Why don’t I take you out for tea, Aziraphale?” she asks. It’s a bit startling, hearing a human say his name sometimes. It’s certainly what he prefers, ‘Ezra’ just sounds odd to him, but he’s learned to respond to it after a few centuries. Claire had picked up his full name from Crowley singing it from the back of the shop a few times. “You look like you could use a break.”

“Hmm,” he rubs a hand over his face, tiredly. “Sure.”

* * *

They actually end up going out for dinner because it’s that time of day, and Aziraphale’s in the mood for a bit of decadence. It won’t be quite the same without Crowley as an audience, but ah, well. They talk about the loves of their lives until Claire startles him, crinkling her brow as he sops up the last of his soup with some bread.

“You could try couples’ therapy?” she sips her wine and eyes him from the corner of her eye. “My friend Angelique swears by it. I could get you a recommendation, if you like.” Aziraphale blinks, uncomprehending. “You’re both…” she struggles, making grasping motions with her hands as she tries to find a diplomatic way to put it. “It would help,” she huffs finally, shaking her head.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale’s mind is reeling with the idea of having to explain _6,000 years_ to a human with a degree in psychiatry.

“Look, just consider it,” she says, hotly setting her glass down. “You’ve got anxiety written all over you, and Crowley’s depressed, and neither of you have dealt with being around each other all the time before! It’s hard living with another person, it really is,” she sighs, crossing her arms on her chest. “Love is hard enough, Aziraphale,” she holds his eyes. “Don’t break something so precious because you fold towels one way, and he folds them the other.”

Aziraphale squints slightly, considering the woman he’s known for perhaps thirty years. She holds his gaze, raising an eyebrow at him.

He breaks the stare down first, returning his eyes to the remainder of his bread heel. “Hmm,” he’s feeling a little like he’s talking to Gabriel, on the spot, and that’s not quite right, is it? His heart is racing, and he’s not feeling particularly hungry anymore. _Anxiety, huh?_

“I’ll have to look into it,” he allows, diplomatically.

Claire sighs a little, rubbing her forehead. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just come out and said it like that. What I mean is that you’re not alone in this, alright?” she gently clasps his hand on the table. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

Aziraphale smiles a little wanly at her, anxiety still trembling at the edges.

“Of course,” he swallows and gives her what he hopes is a confident smile.

* * *

Crowley pops awake sometime a day or two later in the morning. He painfully inhales two lungsful of water, and spends the next half hour coughing it up. He takes another shower to skim off the sweat of nearly asphyxiating, and makes himself some espresso while dictating a shopping list on his phone. Three of his buyers have pinged him, two of them have stupidly chosen the same time even though his calendar is supposed to keep that from happening. He’s seeing the next one in an hour, so he doesn’t have long to run errands.

He flexes his fingers a little, wincing at the strange tautness of his skin. Today’s not a great sense-day, really. He’s going to be stretched thin just handing off plants. _Too bad_, he sneers at himself, and digs around in his closet. He ends up in a dark blue button-up shirt that he has to bind in to look good. He even decides to bind because it feels kind of nice when he’s like this, like it’s the only thing holding his roiling bits together. He ruins the look with a baggy hoodie on top of it, but _he_ knows that he’s sexy underneath, and that’s what matters.

After a bit of back and forth, he pulls on Nanny’s old snakeskin gloves, and goes to collect the plants he’s going to be handing off today. The current set is a tray of succulents in a rainbow of different colors, all very small and delicate like rosettes. He settles into the Starbucks several blocks from his flat, and smiles a predator’s smile at the woman who sits across from him. He’s been dealing with her for a number of years, but she’s still not particularly fond of him. He’s good with plants, and always has a number of unique, sometimes one-of-kind things in his collection, but there’s something about him that rubs her the wrong way. It's prevalent today behind the dark glasses, dark gloves, and puffy hoodie.

The manager at the Starbucks rousts them after they squabble a little about one of the bright red succulents he’s been breeding up. She insists that it must be painted, which he is absolutely incensed by. _Why would I _paint_ a plant, I might as well water ‘em with poison!_

They complete the transaction on the bus bench nearby, and he forces her to pay more for the trouble.

He’s got another sell going on in two hours, but now he’s lost a location to barter in. He’ll have to do it in a park, or something. _Ugh_. Maybe he should try getting a storefront like Aziraphale. He doesn’t sell plants often, but well, he does do it frequently enough that it might be a good idea. He could use the space, too. He keeps miracling his glasshouse larger every year.

He walks back to the Bentley and drives home, texting his next contact the location of a park as he passes it. They respond within seconds, startling him. _OK_.

_Someone_ was very interested in a boring set of rubber plants. Maybe they had a whiny boss who absolutely needed them for some reason, aesthetics or a photo shoot. He tries not to think about the fate of his plants after he hands them off, but it does bother him sometimes. Are they happy? Do they get along with their new roommates in their new home? What if they get thrown away, or don’t make it?

He drums his hands on the steering wheel as he sits outside of his complex. On a whim, he decides to head to the shops, refill his stores of tea and other comestibles he can actually stomach eating. He doesn’t get too many odd looks, even though it’s a rainy Friday afternoon and he’s buying tea and yogurt in wrap-around sunglasses and fancy, feminine gloves. Sometimes people just see something washed up in him, and leave him be.

He eats a few of the gogurts on the way back home, and this time he gets out when he reaches the flat. He has to move Aziraphale’s groceries a bit to fit his new haul in. He bundles up the bread, sandwich-bits, and his blasted marshmallows into the same bag he’s just emptied. He pushes it into one of the empty shelves so nothing spoils, and begins slowly trekking Aziraphale’s deliveries that he left on the countertop into his Bentley. He does eight trips, bustling the delicate things under his hoodie and secreting them in the boot, ensuring no drops of rain tarnish them. There’s still another tower of them, but he checks his watch, and he’s only got about thirty minutes left.

He hauls the two pots, one rubber plant almost as tall as him, and stuffs them into the boot as well (yes, they shouldn’t fit, and yes, of course they do). His injured wrist itches a little as he pulls up to the park. He wasn’t particularly specific about _where_ in the park, but it’s a pretty small one, mostly fenced off green grass around a statue with some benches around it. He doesn’t really feel like hauling out the plants just yet because this is a new buyer.

He eyes the pedestrians for anyone milling about, but no one stands out particularly. After a few minutes and a break in traffic, he gets out, grabs the smaller of the two plants, and lopes easily into the park. He sets the pot on a bench, and bends down to tie his shoe, and for a second his senses flare out so widely that he has to clutch and fall onto the bench, panting.

“Tony?” a tenor voice calls, somewhere to his right. The owner of the voice looks just a _little_ familiar, but he can’t place from where. He’s tall with close-cropped black hair.

“’s me,” he nods and checks his phone, squinting up at the man. “Bubbles?”

The man doesn’t look self-conscious about the name, just holds his eyes and nods. “There should be two,” he states stiltedly looking at the small rubber plant Crowley has cradled against his side.

“Ah,” Crowley starts. “Yeah, well, first time an’ all, gotta make sure you don’t run off with the goods,” he chuckles a little at his own joke. Part of him really enjoys these dealings, as if he were bartering in stolen goods, arms, or drugs instead of a ficus in a ceramic pot that he loves dearly. 

“Right,” Bubbles nods, clipped.

“So, uh,” Crowley stands up, dusting his gloved hands on his jeans. “Half now, eh?” Bubbles stares at him, uncomprehending. Crowley tilts his head, peering a bit more at him. He’s wearing a bright white sweat-suit, brilliant gold studs in his ears.

“Right,” Bubbles suddenly nods, slowly. _Bit thick, this one_.

His sweats have loose pockets, and really, the object that he pulls from the pocket should have weighed the sweats down on that side. Crowley’s considering the logistics of that particular conundrum when the larger man raises the clear bubble of water in his hand and smashes it over Crowley’s head.

“Wha!” Crowley squawks, jumping back, shaking water from his hair. He’s left it loose today, and it was already a bit damp with the rain. “What was that for?” he blinks the warm water out of his eyes, and it stings a little. _Wait, was that water or…?_

Bubbles looks a bit distraught at the fact that Crowley is not a smoldering pile of former-demon. People are beginning to gawp at the pair of them, Crowley pulling a handkerchief from his posh shirt under the hoodie and mopping his streaming eyes. Bubbles suddenly bolts, and Crowley goggles after him. He sniffs a little at the handkerchief, curiously. It smells… mostly like water, petrichor from the rain, but maybe… was that _ozone?_

Panic courses through his body as he considers the implications of that. _Holy water? I’m… was that holy water?_ He falls into the bench again, arm curled around the rubber plant which was apparently not leaving his care today.

“Hey, you alright mate?” a lad in a hoodie comes forth, golden lab in tow. “You know that guy?”

“Uh,” Crowley runs his hand up through his hair, carelessly. “No? I mean… no, didn’t know ‘im.”

“You need me to call someone?” he asks, and the lab leans its drooly lips on Crowley’s knee, looking up at him plaintively. He acquiesces, and gently caresses the dog’s head.

“Nah, sorry, just surprised me ‘s all,” he waves, and the man continues to look at him worriedly. He gives him a bright smile, and turns to the pooch leaning hard into his bony leg. He picks its heavy head up, smooshing its rubbery face, and gently smooths a stray hair from one of its eyes.

“Cute dog,” he grins, and gets up to stretch. The man sighs a little, and after a second, nods a goodbye, continuing on his way. Crowley lugs the rubber plant back over to the Bentley, and settles it into the passenger seat with care, not noticing the tense jiggling energy he’s giving off.

He’s not really sure if he sees the streets, stop lights, cars, or anything else as he drives to Aziraphale’s shop at break-neck speeds. The Bentley’s engine ticks as he pants outside of the shop, pushed a little hard. After a moment, he unbuckles the rubber plant and hugs it to his side as he pushes into Aziraphale’s shop.

It smells strongly of lemon in here, as Aziraphale’s preferred cleaners all do. “Wow,” he states, taking in the sparkling state of the floors, the rafters free of cobwebs. The shelves are in incredible disarray, two of them empty and the others over-stuffed.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice calls from somewhere in the stacks. He pushes through a pile of books, quirking his head at the plant in his arms.

“Angel,” Crowley smiles brightly at him. He’s wearing his terribly old pair of jeans with orange-striped suspenders and a long-sleeved white shirt that he’d last seen on his Brother Francis alter-ego. “Bit early for spring cleaning, isn’t it?” he smirks a little. Aziraphale had told him once that he preferred to do ‘spring cleaning’ perhaps once a century. He had charms for that sort of thing, after all.

“Uh,” Aziraphale starts a little, eyebrow crinkling as he takes in Crowley’s soddenness, robed in a number of layers, not even showing his hands. _Bad day_, he notes. “Uh, I suppose so,” he smiles a little. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, gesturing as if to take the plant in Crowley’s arms.

“Ah, oh,” Crowley looks down at it, curiously. “Uh, you uh, if you want it,” he shrugs. “I uh, well, I guess I’ve got something to tell you,” he chuckles a little and turns to lean on the desk. _More than just getting bombed by holy water, but let’s not think about that right now_.

“Oh?” Aziraphale runs his fingers through the leaves as he thinks, considering Crowley’s frenetic intrusion in comparison to how they left off last time. The rubber plant doesn’t tremble quite so much in fear, but at the moment he’s getting a deep thread of concern, which he can certainly understand. He’s very concerned about his demon as well.

“I think I just got, uh, someone tried to kill me?” he gestures at himself, as if it’s readily visible. Aziraphale freezes, barely managing not to crash the ceramic pot to the floor, suddenly devouring Crowley’s personage for any sign of bullet holes or telltale dampness. He sets the plant down on his desk gently and steps closer to the demon.

“May I see?” he asks softly, forcing himself to not touch him even though he really wants to paw him over in search for wounds.

“Uh?” Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him. “Oh, oh, no it’s not like that, I’m fine? It’s uh, weird,” he runs another hand through his hair, and looks at the glove quizzically. “I was making a sale, y’know,” he gestures at the plant perched next to them on the desk. “Guy pulls out a ball of water, uh… and just smashes it on my head.”

Aziraphale takes a step back, and crosses his arms, looking a bit put out. “Crowley,” he huffs.

“I think it was holy water,” he says quietly, bowing his head a little so that Aziraphale could take a look.

“What,” the angel barks out sharply. He steps up to Crowley immediately, and begins combing through his hair. The skin of his scalp is a little pink, but there’s no sign of any burning or melting. He pulls his fingers back to his nose, and makes a deeply concerned noise.

“Crowley, you’re blessed,” he states, gazing at the faint holy light glimmering around the demon’s head.

Crowley sighs. “Seems like I’ve been taking a ton of showers lately,” he gripes. “Can I use yours?”

“Uh,” Aziraphale just looks at him, mouth agape. “H-how?” he stumbles, sitting down hard on his desk. “We didn’t… we couldn’t actually have…” Aziraphale looks down at his hand in wonder.

Crowley sighs, leaning his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know, Aziraphale,” he sighs. “I suppose…” he trails off.

“Crowley, who was it?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly standing next to him, vibrating, and he can sense the protective rage coming off him in waves. He considers the angel, peering down through his glasses at him.

“Just a guy. A grunt, someone they could afford to lose,” he shrugs, after a second.

“Crowley,” he grits it out, and he grips his shoulder like a vice.

Crowley sighs, slumping a little. “Said his name was Bubbles. New buyer, wanted some rubber plants,” he gestures at the plant on the desk, redundantly.

Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise. They’ve talked about his selling plants before, so he knows how the transactions play out. Nothing specifically identifying the demon would’ve passed between them, nor would anything particularly identifying pass about the buyer, just a post with “available” and someone flagging that they’re interested, and a few texts flying back and forth.

“I’ll—” Aziraphale sighs, roughly pulling his cleaning gloves from his hands. Crowley’s scalp is starting to itch fiercely, and he scrubs at it with his gloved hands, grimacing. “Oh, right, here, let me show you to the bathroom.” Crowley follows the angel upstairs curiously. There’s a dim hallway with a few closed rooms, and an open doorway at the end of the hall with a small tub visible from the hall.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley smiles, “I’ll just be a sec.” He bites off the apology that wants to rush on the tail end of that, and closes the door with a curt nod. He hears Aziraphale shuffle down the hall after a moment. He honestly considers just trying to shove his head only into the shower, lest he contaminate his clothes with holy water and then _that_ kill him. He gives up on it as he peers at the rusted, antique showerhead. If it was one of those ones you could pluck off the wall and point, then sure, he’d try it. _Suppose you just take baths, huh?_

He strips carefully, feeling a little light-headed. Aziraphale’s bathroom is cluttered and tight, and he’s forced to look into the mirror as he tugs off the hoodie and unbuttons the navy shirt. He peers a little at his scalp, but despite the itchiness, it’s just a little pink. His hair is still deeply rooted, he notes, as he gives it a few testing tugs. _Weird_.

It takes him a bit to find soap that’s not for a bubble bath, and most of the angel’s shampoo makes him wince as he smells it. He settles on a nearly empty bottle of vanilla flavored Herbal Essence in packaging that’s two-cycles out of date, and stumbles into the shower, barking his shins on the height of the bath. They’re the same height, practically, so it’s a little odd that his tub is so deep.

He showers quickly, a little awkward in the unfamiliar bath. Usually he’d luxuriate, push his head into the spray as he places his palms against the wall. He towels himself off with a fluffy pink towel, and fumbles with Aziraphale’s mirror. There’s no hidden medical kit here, sadly. He tentatively reaches out for his medical kit at home, a little worried that his magic will flare oddly. It doesn’t, though. He unfolds another bandage, plucking off the first half of the adhesive tabs, gently smothering the scabbing gashes with ointment, and then pressing the rest of the bandage down, sealing it.

He shrugs into his binder, even though he knows that Aziraphale will sniff if he notices he’s wearing it. It soothes him a little, like a synthetic hug. His clothes don’t sting or itch as he puts them back on. Everything seems fine, really. He squints in the mirror, seeing the faint glimmer of the blessing that Aziraphale noted. It should have killed him like Ligur, leaving only a melted pile of goo.

Well, things just continued being fucking _ineffable_. Whatever.

He catches a glimpse of Aziraphale’s bedroom through a cracked door. He doesn’t linger, even though he’d really like to. It just looks dusty, cluttered with books. Probably unused, he figures. He galumphs down the stairs, and finds Aziraphale on his not-quite-as-ancient computer, brow furrowed as he considers something on the screen.

“Thanks, angel,” he smiles a little lazily at him. “Feel like a million bucks,” he chuckles, combing his gloved fingers through his hair. It’s going to frizz out a little, but so be it.

Aziraphale frowns at him, hand over his mouth from where he’d been resting it in concentration. “What?” Crowley asks, shrugging his arms out, resettling the hoodie on his thin form.

“Why now?” Aziraphale asks, turning around in his computer chair and crossing his arms. “They’ve left us alone for a year.”

Crowley sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I dunno, angel,” he huffs, waving his arms a bit in the overlarge hoodie.

“Should we move?” Aziraphale considers the navy collar peeking out from under the hoodie on one side. He _knows_ that shirt. He likes it very much. _Interesting to wear it under something so formless_, he muses.

“I’d rather not,” Crowley sighs, leaning against the desk. “I dunno,” he shrugs, gesturing. “Do _you_ want to move?”

“No,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I think it was just a random hit, angel,” Crowley’s sleeve flops over his hand as he gestures outwardly. “Just a stab in the dark.”

“We should test me, then,” Aziraphale pushes himself up from the chair, and Crowley freezes comically in place, arm still flopped out.

“Uh, no,” Crowley sputters, then chases after the angel as he retreats into the back half of his shop. “You aren’t like, hiding some hellfire somewhere or something?”

Aziraphale scoffs, rustling through a display cabinet. “Of course not, dear. I don’t have a death wish.” He produces a small snuffbox, silver with a heavily decorated lid. “I just know how easy it is to make,” he smiles, handing it to Crowley.

Crowley’s brows quirk up as he considers the box. The lid is decorated with what could only be Eden, lush trees and a naked couple with their backs to them as they watch the sun rise.

“Are you sure?” he asks, softly, popping the lid. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of the sulfur inside.

“If our roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want to know?” Aziraphale asks softly in the same tone he had used to tutor Warlock. Crowley blinks at him, seriously considering just tossing the box at him and leaving in a huff. _Don’t take that tone with me, angel_.

He clips the lid closed, and walks over to him, taking his shoulder. “Don’t patronize me, angel,” he gives him a biting smile. “Come along then.”

They walk into Aziraphale’s kitchenette and sit at his small card table tucked in the back. Crowley had rustled it up for him thirty years prior from a curb waiting for pickup. It’s rickety, but Aziraphale mostly eats at his various desks or out at restaurants, so it isn’t really a problem.

Crowley pulls off a glove, and draws a few shapes on the table with his bare hand. His nail polish is beginning to chip a little, he notes. He pauses, considering the runes that swim before his eyes and plucks off his glasses so that he can make sure they’re doing what they’re supposed to.

“What if I can’t do it anymore?” his eyes dart up to the angel’s, then back down to the runes. They look fine, honestly, but fear’s trickling at him nonetheless.

“Only one way to find out,” Aziraphale gestures, placing his hand above the sigils on the table; they’re warm with fiery potential. Crowley waves his hands away, glaring a little.

He dribbles a little of the sulfur into the middle of the runes, and considers it again. “You’re sure?” he whispers, yellow eyes glowing a little in the dimness of the kitchenette. Aziraphale’s glow a soft silver in return, and he gently squeezes Crowley’s gloved hand on the table. “Yes.”

Crowley blows the word onto the pile of sulfur, and it ignites, casting them both in a bright orange light as it swirls to life. Aziraphale starts back a little, innate fear of hellfire being something that doesn’t really have to be taught. It spirals up, just a little, stopping somewhere above their heads. It’s smokeless, so the fire alarm doesn’t go off thankfully.

Crowley considers the flames idly, and sticks his naked finger into them. It tickles, feeling warm and a little happy to be lapping at him. Hellfire and holy water tend to take after their creators a little. Doesn’t make them any less lethal though.

Aziraphale quavers a little, but sticks the pinky of his left hand into the flames. He giggles a little. “Oh, it’s warm,” he grins, and sticks his whole hand in it.

“Yeah,” Crowley smiles, fondness washing over him as he gazes at the angel across the table, hellfire swirling between them. He gently brushes the runes away with the ungloved hand and the fire dims, frizzing out slowly.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Aziraphale fingers his suspenders, anxiety visible around his eyes.

“Ineffable,” Crowley offers, and gently takes Aziraphale’s right hand in his. Aziraphale stills as he brings his fingers to his lips, and gently kisses the knuckles, one by one.

“I love you,” he smiles, giddy with the fact that he can just say it, whenever.

Aziraphale quivers a little. Crowley was clearly having a bad sensory day, but well. Well! If he’s going to offer, he isn’t going to say no.

“And I, you,” Aziraphale replies, and Crowley sighs happily.

“Should take you out to dinner,” he says, and gets up from the rickety table.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale replies, surprised as the demon laces their fingers together, using his ungloved hand. “I’ll have to change,” he plucks at his dirty jumper.

Crowley laughs at that. “I guess we can just get takeout,” he turns and brings their conjoined hands up to his lips and kisses his knuckles again, eyes soft.

“Of course,” Aziraphale nods. He gently pulls their joined hands from where Crowley was leading (towards the couch), and takes them to the front desk. They have to release their hold on each other so that Aziraphale can shuffle through his drawers to find the take-out flier he’s looking for. It takes a few minutes, and Crowley walks over to the leather seat near the door and settles into it.

“Do you want anything, dear?” Aziraphale asks, antique phone cradled against his ear.

Crowley considers it, running his gloved fingers over his chin, “Wonton soup?”

Aziraphale nods, and dials the shop and puts in their order. Crowley wanders off while he’s deciding on the number of egg rolls that he wants, and when he hangs up, Crowley walks back in from the back of the shop draped in the blanket from the couch in back. Aziraphale chuckles a little, smiling fondly.

“Cold, dear?” he asks, sitting down at his desk chair. Crowley shrugs a little, though he looks very cozy and adorable wrapped in the blue and yellow tartan, the hood of his black hoodie flopped over where the blanket is wrapped around his shoulders. He carefully sits in the chair again, and peers at Aziraphale from his bundle.

“Angel,” he starts, eyes on the gleaming wooden slats of the floor. There’s sclera there, today, not back-to-back yellow pools. “I’m—” he starts, and huffs in frustration. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

Aziraphale tilts his head on his palm, considering the demon, “I know.”

Crowley grumbles, bunching the blanket closer around him. “You’re gonna say, ‘oh, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,’” Crowley makes a puppet out of his hand in the blanket, mimicking.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale laughs. “I just…” he looks out at the gray rain outside. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings either, dear. You mean the world to me.”

“Sucks that it’s so hard, huh?” Crowley sniffs, rubbing the blanket against his nose. Crowley doesn’t miss the flicker of smirking inuendo that passes over Aziraphale’s face at that, and he cackles, expanding in the blanket. “Oh angel, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“I certainly hope not,” Aziraphale grins wickedly, toying with some papers on his desk. The silence stretches for a bit, and Aziraphale excuses himself to wash his hands. “It itches,” he hums, pulling at his left hand.

“Yeah, I know. Weird, isn’t it?”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s comfortable in this chair in the shop, coiled in blankets and safe. He’s going to tell the angel about it tonight, and it’s probably going to ruin things, because of course it is. But right now, he’s warm, and Aziraphale keeps smiling at him fondly.

“Oh,” he remembers suddenly. “I brought some of your books. They’re in the Bentley,” he points a lump that’s hopefully his hand out towards the car.

“Oh, lovely!” Aziraphale smiles. “Would you mind if I go get them?”

“Go for it,” Crowley huddles further down into the blanket. “They’re in the trunk.”

Aziraphale’s braver than he, and brings them all in at once, shielding them from the rain with a holy light. The food arrives as Aziraphale’s frustratedly trying to shelve the books, some of them apparently belonging on the shelves that he’s currently cleaning. Crowley signs for it, chatting a little with the delivery man.

As he brings the steaming bags towards the back of the shop, he calls, “C’mon angel, shelve later.” He gloves his hand again, and apportions the food out on the little coffee table. It’s been a while since they’ve eaten like this, but through the latter half of their tenure with Warlock, they’d ended up clustered around this coffee table here a lot, reading modern textbooks with confused looks and repeatedly gaping, “Wait, I don’t, it wasn’t like _that!_ We were _there_, how did they get it so wrong?”

History is written by the winners, and they employ incredibly boring writers.

Aziraphale dusts his hands on his jeans, and joins Crowley on the floor. “Oh, we haven’t done this in a while, have we?” he grins, settling into a cross-legged position and pulling a plate from his cupboard with a thought. He ladles out noodles, rice, and three egg rolls to start.

“Yeah, thankfully we don’t have to read a textbook this time,” Crowley chuckles through a mouthful of searingly hot wonton.

“I mean we could, if you wanted,” Aziraphale grins, giving him a raised eyebrow, “I’m sure we could analyze something, if you really wanted to.”

Crowley nearly chokes on his broth, sputtering. “Aziraphale,” he coughs, giving him a dark look wrinkled with a suppressed smile.

“Oh, sorry dear,” he pats Crowley’s knee, protected by the blanket. “Oh, you know,” Aziraphale wiggles his shoulders a little, thought occurring to him. “I was thinking, we could thumb through a dictionary. Stumble on a word?”

Crowley stills a little, but after a moment he nods. “Not a bad idea,” he mumbles through a mouthful of soup.

They eat in silence for a bit, Crowley finishing first as always. He fondly watches Aziraphale pat napkins against his lips, devouring a frankly enormous amount of Chinese food. He’s decided that when Aziraphale’s done, he’ll tell him. His chest hurts, and when Aziraphale looks up at him after enjoying a long slurp of noodles, he frowns at the tension on Crowley’s face.

“Everything alright?” he asks softly, dabbing at his lips.

“Uh,” Crowley states, throat suddenly dry and aching. “I… have something to tell you,” he says softly, fingers drawing circles on his knee and his eyes cast downward at Aziraphale’s plate.

“Okay,” Aziraphale sets his plate aside, pulling a napkin along his soiled fingers.

“Uhm,” Crowley bites his lip, eyes flicking up to Aziraphale’s face, then away. “I… hm.” He sighs, pulling his fingers through his hair. “I remembered something,” he clears his throat, blinking against tears that are already pricking there.

“About the man today?” Aziraphale asks, leaning forward, and gentling Crowley’s hand where it’s doodling on his knee.

Crowley’s eyes go distant in surprise. “Uh? Uh, no,” he shakes his head, and gently pushes Aziraphale’s hand away with a sniff.

“Uh, so,” Crowley sighs, dragging his hand up along the side of his face, distorting his features. He’s quiet for a moment, spacing out on a spot above Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale’s mouth quirks down a little as the yellow of the demon’s eyes floods out, pretense of humanity slipping away.

“I don’t know where to start,” he sighs tightly, closing his eyes, and rubbing his forehead with a gloved hand. He’s starting to overheat a little in anxiety, and unwraps the blanket from his shoulders.

“I find the beginning is usually good,” Aziraphale smiles a little, nodding encouragingly at him. Crowley glowers at him a little, and Aziraphale hiccups a laugh, “What’s this about, dear boy?”

“Uhm,” Crowley stares at his tartan clad lap. “Us. Me. I… okay, fine,” Crowley stands up, stepping out of the blanket. He miracles a red from Aziraphale’s cupboard into his hand and pours them both glasses.

“Cheers,” he tilts his glass towards the angel, and downs his before Aziraphale can even register the toast. Aziraphale sips nervously at his, getting up to join Crowley on the couch.

Aziraphale’s about to offer something feathered with concern, so Crowley jumps forward. “You remember when we were writing each other letters?” It’s as good a place to start as any.

“Of course, dear, I still have all of yours tucked away,” he smiles, worry wrinkling his forehead as he thinks back over what he’s written, wondering if he may have said something wrong, something that might have been misconstrued.

Crowley stares at him fondly for a moment. “You wrote me once,” he gestures, filling his glass again. “I was in—in India. You were telling me to come to China.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale nods, catching on. “There was that guest star, I really wanted you to see it… with me,” he blushes a little. The demon could’ve easily seen it, it was visible _everywhere_. But Aziraphale had wanted to share the experience with someone, someone who might remember that experience for centuries instead of disappearing on him thanks to their innate mortality. He’d just lost someone he’d been very fond of, and shared quite a bit with. He was repeatedly devastated as he motioned to go to him, and say, “Oh, remember when?” and the fellow was gone. Grieving for mortals is a bit of a constant for eternal entities.

Crowley blinks at him. He’d forgotten that detail somehow. “Oh. Really?”

Aziraphale nods, sipping at his glass.

“I uh, I didn’t respond, huh?” Crowley’s eyes are dark with emotion, and he drinks deeply from his glass again.

“Oh Crowley, please. That was a long time ago,” Aziraphale starts, patting at the cushion between them to keep himself from touching the demon without the extra protective layer.

“Yeah,” Crowley bites out, like that’s an insult somehow. “Yeah, I suppose it was.”

Aziraphale gives him a startled, concerned look.

“Uh, sorry about that, I guess,” Crowley shrugs. Part of him just wants to stop there. He finishes his glass, and pours another, waving to make sure the bottle stays topped off.

“Are… are we just trotting out all the times we’ve screwed up?” Aziraphale asks shrewdly, squinting and leaning forward again.

Crowley chuckles darkly, “I wish.”

He inhales deeply, steeling himself. “I uh, I was going to go to China, right? Got your letter, going to China. So, I,” his voice fails him for a second, and he coughs. “I… go to a bar. Just, y’know, me and bars, pff,” he gestures wildly, then grumbles and removes his gloves. He’s going to have to shrug off the hoodie soon, buzzing with anxiety as he is.

“Yes?” Aziraphale nods encouragingly.

He stutters, and stops himself. “A bar… and, I walk in, and uh… well,” his chest aches, looking at Aziraphale and knowing that _this is it, this is when I ruin everything_. “You were there,” he gulps the words out, like he’s drowning for air.

Aziraphale quirks his head, considering and quickly revisiting millennia of memories for something that might fit this encounter.

“I wasn’t,” he finally states after a moment, brow furrowed because he’s still not entirely sure. There were times when he was honestly too drunk to tell whether something had actually happened, or if it was just wishful thinking.

Crowley laughs darkly, “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, it looked like you.” He gestures at Aziraphale generally. “I suppose if I’d seen him from the front, I might’ve seen it,” he says thinking aloud, eyes taking in Aziraphale’s face. The incubi had gotten the nose a little wrong too, he realizes.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow, thinking hard and considering the demon. He laughs a little at that, drops his glass on the coffee table, and tugs the hoodie off roughly, tossing it on the chair across from them.

“So yeah,” he laughs a little, shaking his head rapidly as if he could stop himself from saying this, stop it from happening back then, just _stop_. “Incubus!” he cackles hysterically, manic grin taking over his face, and Aziraphale freezes in horror.

“Oh no, oh _no_,” he whispers, his face popping out in a myriad of emotions as he considers all the layers of this particular horror.

“Yeah, I mean, did you know,” he’s grinning, wagging a finger at the angel and jittering with anxious energy as he plucks up his wine glass again, “I was the first?” He sneers a little at the angel, pain behind his eyes. He takes a shaking drink of his glass, and laughs again as he finishes.

“The first?” Aziraphale asks, concern beating out of him so hard that Crowley titters and reels back a little as he feels it lapping at his knees.

“Remember back then,” Crowley gently toys with the cushion between them, dipping his fingers into the concern, worry, and overbearing love the angel is giving off. “They thought we were immune to them,” he keeps his eyes on the cushion, fingering at a stray thread. “You know, we don’t lust. Well… not naturally,” he shrugs, grinning shyly up at the angel.

“So… yeah,” he sighs. “Uh, they were real interested in it, of course,” he runs a hand through his hair, wondering if he’s going to have to take off his navy shirt as well. “Took me down there,” his voice quavers a little, “Uh, y’know.” He shrugs a little, as if it were no big thing. The tears in his eyes and the grimacing curl of his lip state otherwise.

Aziraphale pulls the blanket up from the floor, and knots his fingers into it, desperate to soothe the jangling bundle of nerves on his couch, but now he’s frankly terrified to go near him.

“I didn’t crack until they…” his voice falters, “until they brought him back. The, uh, incubus.” He takes a deep breath, and rubs the heels of his hands against his cheeks idly, sniffing. He rolls his eyes at the ceiling as he does, like he’s trying to wipe the tears away without disturbing mascara or eyeliner (old habits).

“They just wanted to know what you—” he pauses, looking at the angel bunching the quilt up in his arms. “It. What it looked like, to—to me.”

“You didn’t call me by my name,” Aziraphale says, suddenly remembering. Crowley shifts abruptly at that, settling his elbow on a knee, and picking at his lips with anxious energy. “I thought you were playing a trick on me,” Aziraphale looks up at the demon, horrified. “Like you didn’t recognize _me. _Oh, I’m such a fool,” he buries his face in the blanket.

Crowley drums his fingers on his knee, and unbuttons the top few buttons of the shirt. His binder’s showing, but he’s boiling. So be it.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley offers quietly, eyes downcast.

“It’s—It’s! Not! Your! Fault!” Aziraphale ejects so vehemently that Crowley jerks away on instinct. “Please stop apologizing for things that you have no control over,” he continues, a softer growl.

“Uhm,” Crowley rocks back into his previous position, taking a few breaths because his fingers want to be claws at the moment. “Yeah, I guess I kind of erased your name for a bit,” he says softly. 

Aziraphale makes a wet noise, and draws the blanket from his face. “Crowley,” he sighs, miserably.

“Uhh, well, uhm,” he shivers a little back and forth. “In the end, I just told ‘em y-you were blonde,” he waves. “Satan still sends me shit with blondes on it, _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_, feh,” he gestures angrily as if he’s throwing something away.

It’s silent for a moment, a wound weeping between them.

“You know,” Crowley sighs, dragging his hand up his face and through his hair. “The fun thing?” he chuckles tightly. “They were honestly more interested in—that I said it in, uh, Enochian.”

“What?” Aziraphale starts, dropping the blanket into his lap.

“_Fair-haired_,” he smiles, pointing at the light as it flares a little above them and chuckles. “He—it’d just like, he… he punched me, so like, I was in this chair?” he motions, gesturing with his hand up, then takes his other hand and flicks at it, suddenly thumping the upright hand back. “And all I saw was the light behind your—his head, and it was like, ‘ah, okay, perfect,’” he giggles a little, wiping at his face again.

Aziraphale is giving him a confused look. “Fair-haired?” he asks, hand idly going up to his curls. “Wait, how do you know Enochian?”

Crowley grins and shrugs, “Dunno. I don’t remember a lot. Bits and bobs. I don’t think I could string together a _sentence_ in Enochian. Just words. Usually when I’m beat half to death.” He nods unhappily at the wall.

“Wait, you did it more than once?” Aziraphale gawps.

“What?” Crowley starts. “No, the incubus thing just happened once?”

“No, no, spoke Enochian,” he huffs.

“Oh, yeah? ‘s why the warlocks were so interested in me that one time,” he shrugs.

Aziraphale takes a deep inhale, considering. “So,” he begins, “No punching, it sounds like?” His lips curl a little as the demon guffaws at that. “I think I can manage that,” he chuckles, unwinding his hands from the blanket in his lap.

“It’s… yeah,” Crowley nods a little distractedly, rubbing tears of laughter from his eyes. “Don’t, uhm, it—he, uh,” he gestures up, awkwardly. Aziraphale quirks his eyebrow at him, not understanding. Crowley coughs a little, but brings his hand up to his throat, gently mimicking choking, and blanching at the feeling even though it’s his own hand doing it.

“Oh!” Aziraphale nods vigorously. “Oh, of course, dear.” Crowley drops his hand quickly, and swallows a little thickly.

There are a few beats of buzzing silence, Crowley swallowing over the lump in his throat and Aziraphale sipping his wine and looking very pensive, punctuated by anxious glances at the demon. When his glances aren’t glowered at (Crowley is just taking deep breaths and processing) he lets his eyes linger, drawing down the demon’s bare neck and exposed chest, absolutely scrumptious navy shirt rakishly splayed open. It’s really not the time for this sort of thing, but when is it ever? And when has Crowley ever just let him look his fill? He squints a little when he realizes that there’s a distinct lack of nipples, and oh, of course, there’s that binder around Crowley’s chest.

“Is that really necessary?” he gestures at the demon.

“What?” Crowley squawks indignantly, starting a little at the break in silence. “I’m not allowed to undo my shirt?”

Aziraphale blushes deeply, nearly snorting wine out of his nose. Crowley cackles, shaking his head, “Nah, c’mon angel, that’s too much, really! You can’t expect me to be _tempting_ you at a time like this?”

“No, Crowley, please,” he coughs into a napkin. He waves a hand at his middle, “Binding! I was talking about the binder.”

“Oh,” Crowley chuckles, running a hand down the synthetic fabric. “Felt like it,” he sniffs a little. 

Aziraphale sighs, put upon, “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Crowley grunts, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Don’t think it’s been eight hours. ‘s fine.” He stretches back on the couch, and his feet bump into Aziraphale’s lap. He’s wearing black socks with a dark gray stripe up the sides, nothing too fancy. He wiggles his feet a little so that more of his legs drip into the angel’s lap and he can sink fully supine onto the couch.

“Thought you’d hate me,” Crowley coughs a little. “Ruined it before we even started.”

Aziraphale exhales, long and slow. “I certainly hate… some people,” he begins tightly, and brings his tension fueled hands to knead at his feet. _Oh, that’s good_. “But I don’t hate you. Not for something you couldn’t control. Not for _that_.”

“’s good,” Crowley rumbles, covering his eyes with a hand. He’s not sure if he’s complimenting the massage, or approving of Aziraphale’s wrath. Maybe it’s both.

“I suppose I was rather lucky, huh?” Aziraphale sighs, digging his thumbs into the arch of Crowley’s foot. Crowley sighs happily, wriggling his toes.

“Hm?” Crowley pokes his head up awkwardly when he replays what the angel’s just said.

“I hardly ever got discorporated, only a few lashings through the years. No one really did anything untoward, well,” he huffs a little. “Humans,” he shrugs, and gives Crowley a _you know_ wriggle of his eyebrows.

“What?” Crowley yelps and lurches up into a sitting position, looking disgruntled and Aziraphale can’t help the pleased _oh_ as he gets an eyeful of Crowley in that lovely navy shirt (_up close!_), binder rucked around a little with shifting upright. Crowley smirks and flushes at the up-down the angel gives him.

“You’re insatiable, angel,” he chuckles, shaking his head. Aziraphale pales at that, looking up at the demon’s face. _Don’t be angry about me looking, I can’t help it, it’s all I’ve gotten for so long, please._

“No, it’s—just…” he waves dismissively, chuckling. He very delicately pulls one of Aziraphale’s hands from his foot as he settles cross-legged on the cushion across from him. The touch buzzes, just a little much, but he’s willing to put up with it right now, petting the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his fingertips.

“What did the humans do, eh?” he doesn’t manage nonchalance at all, malice curled in his lips, shadowing his eyes with his hair.

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, spacing out on the closeness of the demon and the pleasant, ticklish feeling of finger pads drawing over his wrist and up to his knuckles. “Oh, well, sometimes you know, they get a little overzealous,” he waves with the hand that’s not being pet by the demon.

“I know,” Crowley’s teeth are slightly sharp, and Aziraphale’s startled by the protective, angry glint in Crowley’s eyes which are still surveying his hand. “I suppose you dealt with them though?” he breathes through his teeth, and ticks his eyes up to Aziraphale’s, expression still heavy with protectiveness and malice, and Aziraphale’s heartrate spikes, a soft noise of need popping unbidden from his throat. He masks it with a quick cough, and clumsily undoes his tie with one hand as he tries to deal with the sudden uptick in his body heat.

“Oh, well. I just had to remind them of the whole _no means no_ thing you know,” he chuckles a little nervously, finally managing to undo the knot with a little miracle, and unbuttons the first two buttons of his shirt in rapid succession. For his part, Crowley does notice the rapid flushing of the angel’s cheeks, rushing down under his shirt, but he is frankly confused by it, or what might have caused it. _Did it just get hotter in here and I didn’t notice?_

“Part of why I don’t go out _en femme_ too much, honestly,” Aziraphale smiles a little shakily, and is incredibly grateful that Crowley’s brought his gaze back to his hand, passionate anger fading a little, replaced by idle confusion and interest. Crowley nods a little, conceding the point about the dangers of passing as a woman. He draws his other hand to the angel’s and begins kneading. The buzz is there, but it’s becoming pleasant somehow.

“Anything I should beware of, then?” Crowley asks lightly, kneading back into Aziraphale’s forearm. In doing so, he’s drawn Aziraphale’s hand within inches of his chest, and Aziraphale is quivering with a need to reach out and touch.

“Uhm,” he’s staring so intently at the zipper of Crowley’s binder, it’s a wonder that it doesn’t unzip right there for him. He leans his hand forward, heart beating a samba in his chest, and presses against the fabric. Crowley stills a little, but doesn’t withdraw from the touch. “Alright?” Aziraphale asks tightly, looking worriedly up at Crowley’s eyes. The motion has drawn their faces incredibly close and now he’s going to have to wrestle with not kissing him. _Damn it, think before you do things!_

Crowley grins a little at him, relief on his face. “I love you,” he whispers, and draws a hand softly to his cheek, testing his senses. He gentles a kiss, softly on Aziraphale’s lips, eyes closed and smiling. He releases him after a second, delicately, and chuckles a little at the whiny need painted on the angel’s face. Aziraphale thumbs the zipper of his binder, eyes pleading.

Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale loves that he can feel the reverberations through his palm. “If you insist,” he whispers, and kisses him again, open mouthed. It startles the angel so much that he doesn’t respond to the not-quite human tongue at first as it softly explores his mouth. Crowley goes slowly, incredibly gentle, and a moan croons out of Aziraphale’s throat. He wants to grab Crowley by the hair and kiss him back hungrily, he’s trembling with it, but he holds it back. With some trouble, he matches the soft slowness, raising his free hand up to Crowley’s cheek, thumbing the serpent-brand. Crowley moans softly, deepening the kiss, and leans forward into the angel.

Aziraphale lets himself be led back by the demon, leaning his head back into a pillow which certainly wasn’t there before, and moves a hand from the binder down to Crowley’s hip, grounding himself, and guiding the demon forward just a little. Crowley hums, slotting himself between Aziraphale’s hips, gold eyes smiling as he returns to kissing him properly now that they’re settled. Aziraphale delicately drags his fingers through Crowley’s hair, just surface level as Crowley is being so delicate. His other hand quivers from its resting spot on Crowley’s hip and, shaking, clasps around Crowley’s buttock, triumphantly (_finally_, something sighs happily in Aziraphale’s head). Crowley barks a laugh at the groping, breaking the kiss and flexing his fingers near the angel’s armpits where his own hands are too busy bracing himself delicately above him.

“Too much?” Aziraphale asks guiltily, grinning sheepishly and removing his hand, raising it in front of his chest like he's showing he's unarmed.

“You’re wild, you know that?” Crowley tucks a few stray hairs behind his ear, gazing down at the angel fondly.

“I love you,” Aziraphale croons, gently cradling a few more strands behind Crowley’s other ear. Crowley makes a face at him, chuckling, but leans back on his haunches. He exhales deeply, looking down at the angel.

_Anything you’ll give me_, pulses through Crowley’s head as he looks down at the incredibly flushed, panting angel beneath him. _What if it’s not enough? _

“Sorry,” he chuckles a little nervously. “Bit of a bad day for this,” he shivers a little, and begins buttoning up his shirt. Aziraphale watches him, licking his lips a little as he screws up, twice, and has to undo and redo some of the buttons. He would really rather watch him _unbutton_ a shirt, but he’ll take what he can get.

“How’re you feeling?” Aziraphale’s voice is taut with want, but he’s working to iron it down. He struggles upright, being very careful not to touch the demon with his legs as he draws them back.

Crowley sighs, motioning for the hoodie which flops over to him. He struggles into it, and drops the overlarge sleeves onto his thighs once he’s done. “Like everything’s turned up to eleven,” he huffs. “Sucks.”

Aziraphale primly downs his wine, smooths his hair a little, toys with the edges of his undone tie. “What do you usually do when it’s like this?” Aziraphale asks, eying him as he pours himself another.

Crowley looks a little startled to be asked. He shrugs. “Just get through it?”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes a little at him, and Crowley gives him another shrug. “What, like we come with a fuckin’ manual Aziraphale?” he flops his black-clad arms around, gesturing.

Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow, smirking, “When I feel out of sorts, I usually just hole up in the back of the shop.” He gestures upstairs, “Swaddle myself in quilts, grab a big mug of hot chocolate, just read for a while.”

Crowley considers him, then rubs his elbows, shivering. “I don’t think I want to be alone right now,” he states quietly after a moment.

“Okay,” Aziraphale sets his wine down, and picks up his plate from where he’d abandoned it earlier. His food finds itself suddenly warm again, and he continues where he left off. Crowley settles back on the couch with a sigh.

“Anything you’d like to do, dear?” Aziraphale asks, noodles poking out of his mouth again.

Crowley gives him a look, somewhat anguished. “What?” Aziraphale asks, startled, and dabs at his lips.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he gestures at nothing, eyes distant.

“You’ll have to elaborate, dear, I’m not following.”

“I’m… you,” Crowley grimaces. “I thought I’d be courting you for another like, century or two, if-if… it came to this. But you’re just like, ‘let’s go!!’’ he makes a motion, as if someone were running ahead of him wildly.

Aziraphale sets his food down and considers the demon for a moment. “You realize we’ve been courting for millennia at this point, Crowley,” he finally offers, drolly. Crowley pales a little like that, giving Aziraphale a stark look. _That was courting?_

“Perhaps it’s… all part of the divine plan, hm?” Aziraphale sighs, crunching into an egg roll. Crowley gives him a quizzical look. “Poetic justice?” he offers, spilling a few crumbs with his words.

“’m not following,” Crowley says, gesturing a few more napkins into existence on the table for the angel.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale dusts his crumby lap into a napkin, and takes another, perhaps ill-advised bite. A sliver of lettuce escapes his lips, and he struggles to capture it before it hits the floor. He doesn’t succeed. “I know you remember ’67,” Aziraphale says softly, grunting as he bends down to pick up the lettuce from the rug. Crowley stills, anxiety suddenly jangling through his chest at the memory.

Aziraphale smirks a little to himself, stuffing the lettuce on the table amongst the pile of discard napkins. “And now, well,” he gestures at them both. “Funny how things turn out.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, eyes softening. He shakes himself after a second, and flops back on the couch, settling his head in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Oh!” Aziraphale starts, then smiles.

“Try not to get crumbs on me, angel,” Crowley grouses, settling in a little, eyes drooping as he eases into a nap.

“Of course, dear.” 

* * *

Crowley dozes for a bit on Aziraphale’s lap as he finishes eating. He stretches widely once he gets up, and collects his gloves from where he’d tossed them earlier.

“I’ll bring the rest of your books over next time,” he gestures. “D’ya want the rubber plant?”

Aziraphale considers it. “I suppose I can give it a try,” he gives Crowley a game grin, wiggling his eyebrows. _Something of Brother Francis in that look_, Crowley frowns.

“Rubber plants are easy, Aziraphale,” Crowley grumbles suppressively, and gently tucks the gloves into his back pocket.

“We’ll see,” Aziraphale nods a little. It’s raining hard outside, sometime near midnight.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs. “If I don’t stop by tomorrow, I’ll call?” he offers.

“That would be wonderful,” Aziraphale smiles, and gently guides Crowley towards the door, because if he doesn’t the demon will continue feeling guilty and apologizing in the foyer for another hour.

“Take care of yourself, Crowley,” he says as he opens the door for him, heart twinging with the fact that, had mysterious circumstances been different, Crowley might’ve died this afternoon, and he might never have known the hows or the whys.

Crowley looks at him, confused. “Uh,” he stutters, “Okay? You feeling all right, angel?”

Aziraphale gives him a somber look and takes his hand delicately, the way Crowley has been taking his, and brings it to his lips, kissing the thin knuckles with reverence, “I love you.”

Tears prick at Crowley’s eyes, stirred by perhaps getting a whiff of the aching relief and fear of what might’ve been. He brings his hand back, taking Aziraphale’s hand with it, and lays a kiss into the palm. “I’ll call you,” he gives the angel a bracing smile. Aziraphale nods, blinking back tears, a little too overwhelmed to say anything else.


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley sleeps for twelve hours, give or take. There are a few night terrors, but he’s able to stay in his bed and not resort to turning himself off in the bath again. His lungs still feel a little off from the last time, honestly. He wakes with a number of aches and pains, feeling mildly rested, but not well. He takes an incredibly brief shower because his scalp aches, and he can’t stand to do anything with his hair. He rebandages his wrist and chest and puts out a cease order on his sales again. Without his glasses on, when he looks up at any of the lights in his flat, he can feel where the holy water hit him in the head, and it drills back into his sinuses and teeth. He may not melt when exposed to holy water, but it certainly isn’t something he’ll happily subject himself to if this is the result.

He wants to call Aziraphale to ask how his hand is doing today, but the buzzing in his head is frankly deafening and the idea of trying to talk when he’s like this makes him _more_ nauseous. He flops onto his couch, spending a few minutes grumbling at trying to keep his glasses on his face comfortably while he’s lying down, eventually giving up to gently put a black sleep mask over his eyes.

He thinks about Aziraphale asking him, “What do you do when it’s like this?” Part of him wants to whine that _oh it wasn’t this bad before! _But that’s not true. At some point very early on, he’d turned into a snake, crawled into a dark hole, and still felt like all of the nerves in his body were attempting to slowly twitch their way out of him. It hadn’t so much gotten better, or stopped feeling like that; he’s just gotten used to it, maybe.

There were things he could do to ease it, make himself feel more… like himself. He just hasn’t really had time to himself in the past eleven or twelve years, perhaps longer. Armageddon has honestly been consuming his consciousness for a lot longer as he’s looked at the calendar and looked around at the current state of affairs, and trembled, _is this it? Is it now?_ He hadn’t realized that he’d be on the front-row for the whole thing. He was terrified he’d be caught unawares, just walking down the street with the angel, talking about ducks or something and suddenly everything would melt around them, and it would all be over.

The point is, he hasn’t really let his hair down in quite a long time.

The night that Aziraphale’s store had burned down, before Adam reset time, Aziraphale had stumbled (having been pushed out of the bedroom where he’d been nosing about) into his living room. The angel had looked around, tossing around for something, _anything _to talk about because all he wanted to do was stare hungrily at Crowley and Crowley kept wincing whenever their eyes met.

_I thought you were gone_.

_I know. I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t, without you_.

“This is a lovely sound system,” Aziraphale started a little airily, presuming that it must be lovely because Crowley owned it and he would get something lovely and technologically marvelous. “But where are the speakers, dear boy?”

Crowley hasn’t been able to listen to music in his flat since, magical fallacy exposed. He’d curiously tried ear buds a few months back, but had hurled them across his flat promptly after trying to get them in his ears. He could not really get behind stuffing anything into his ears, except perhaps q-tips simply because you weren’t _supposed _to and it felt so delicious when you had an itch just there.

He wants to listen to his records now, but his technologically marvelous system probably couldn’t handle anything larger than a USB input. He pushes a little and the system becomes outfitted with a turntable, a duo of cassette players, and a five-disc CD shuffler. He also stretches his aching shoulders a little and wires his flat with a surround sound system that even connects to his television because they can do that now, collapse all of your media into one place (clever beasties).

He lays on his couch, and blares _I Want to Break Free_ so loud that he can feel it rattling his bones. It starts in his toes, dancing a little with the music that he loves, digging deep into the heart of him. It doesn’t take long before Crowley’s up and belting along with Freddie, dancing around his flat, laughing and crying with the swells. He’s loved music before Freddie Mercury, of course, but some people come along and are just… _so much _and he couldn’t get tired of them.

Thankfully, it’s the middle of the day, and most of his neighbors work during the day so it’s mostly overlooked. One of the gardeners who’s worked this complex for a number of decades gets a little misty eyed at the sound. It’s something that used to be an everyday occurrence, a dim forgotten memory, hearing a voice desperately crooning along with blazingly loud music every time he’d come to work out here. He’d used to look forward to it, a little, and it had been constant enough, unlike so many other things in life. He’d assumed the singer must’ve moved, or finally made it. Goodness knows they had the talent for it.

A few hours later, his voice is a little worse for wear, but his limbs feel limber and easy and he keeps grinning, giggling even. He can’t help it. Somewhere in singing along with music he’s been pining with for decades, it suddenly hits him: _We’re free_.

* * *

For Aziraphale, the last few days have not been terribly great, recovering from hellfire like Crowley was recovering from holy water, but today seems a little worse. The hand he’d foolishly thrust into the hellfire has swollen a little, and all the joints in said hand, even up his arm, ache terribly. For whatever reason, his old war wound in his hip has decided to flare up and spread a burning ache up his side too. Perhaps it saw how much fun the aches in his hand and arm were having and decided to join the party.

He’s had to give up on his vigil against the mold currently hiding in the front corner of his shop, which means it’s going to spend the day spreading and infecting things. He still hasn’t managed to get all of it on the walls and shelves; it keeps travelling and hiding from him. He’s been carting contaminated books into a section of the bookstore he’s walled off with plastic sheets, slowly cleaning and removing the scourge. So far, he’s only had two fatalities, both thankfully things he wasn’t particularly in love with, just books he would’ve used as bargaining chips with certain booksellers.

He's just glad it’s not silverfish. He was never buying books off of students again, no matter how adorable or down on their luck they appeared. It’s just significantly worse when the paper is destroyed and holey… and the things _moved_, and just… he’s not even near a school, anyway, so the books didn’t even sell and they weren’t really _his_ kind of books, and then they went and destroyed a quarter of his inventory with their infestation just to spite him.

Since he can’t clean, he’s been looking around for more information on things. Were there any previous recordings of demons or angels being immune to things that they weren’t supposed to be? Or _any _occult creature for that matter? Was there any way to pinpoint Crowley’s location in India back in 1050 and find a bastard incubus who happened to be at that same location and then very slowly, viscerally, kill him? Is there a repository of angelic agents he can access somehow and pinpoint a certain angelic prick who thought it would be fun to try killing Crowley?

His research is not particularly fruitful, sadly. There were plenty of tall tales about entities flouting the rules and surviving, but they mostly ended up being humans pretending to be something, and thus, _of course_ they could hang out in a church for thirty years without smoldering to dust. 

He’s frittering through news clippings and blown-up microfiche when he’s startled by his phone ringing.

“A.Z. Fell and Co, how may I assist you?” he intones, wincing as he uses his hellfired hand to ease himself into the front desk chair, and audibly hissing as his hip nearly locks as he sits down.

“I can think of a few ways,” Crowley’s voice is playful, just a hint of innuendo, and Aziraphale can hear music playing in the background.

His heart flutters, and he flushes, smiling in surprise, “Oh Crowley, how lovely to hear your voice dear.”

“We really need to get you caller id, angel,” Crowley grunts, and his voices goes far and close. He’s doing something with his cell phone on his shoulder, Aziraphale reckons.

“Perhaps I just enjoy the surprise,” Aziraphale prickles a little. “We’re allowed so few of them after all this time.”

Crowley scoffs and coughs a little, voice a little overworked from all the singing he’s been doing lately. “I think you’d like it, though. I’m sure you’d like texting, angel.”

It’s a well-worn argument, Crowley attempting to wheedle Aziraphale into the twenty-first century via a cell phone, and Aziraphale being fond but incredibly stubborn about being stuck at least a century behind him.

“The screens are so small, though, I’m afraid I’d rather just write to you the old-fashioned way,” Aziraphale huffs, tidying the desk as he’s sitting there and trying not to think about what Crowley was doing which made him a little short of breath.

Crowley laughs, full-throated, and Aziraphale drops the papers he’s been stacking in a start. It reminds him of the gorgeous thing in Crowley’s head drawing him in, and he hasn’t really thought about that perhaps as much as he should have. 

“They’re getting bigger, actually,” Crowley offers, and then he can hear him shrug a little with the odd rustle of the phone on his shoulder. “But, whatever, that’s not why I was calling. We’re going out to dinner. Where am I taking you?”

Aziraphale chuckles after a second, rubbing his brow with his aching hand. “I uh, hmm. You know what I haven’t had in a long time?”

“What, angel?” he croons it a little, and Aziraphale hears a slap of something on Crowley’s end. It makes him flush, mind straying terribly with thoughts about what might be happening over there.

“Oof,” Crowley sputters. “’Sec, just got flour all over my face,” he sneezes loudly.

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts. “You’re making bread?” he asks in wonder. Crowley loves bread, and he used to make a delicious sour dough pretty regularly. He had occasionally pawned spares off on the angel when he was too jangled to eat it himself. It has been centuries, though.

“Yeah,” Crowley’s voice is muffled by his apron or something as he wipes off his face. “Ugh, glad I was wearing glasses,” he spits a little.

“You always wear glasses,” Aziraphale smiles fondly, curling the phone cord around his hand idly.

Crowley sneers, “Me? Glasses? Think you got the wrong demon.”

“Ohh dear,” Aziraphale laughs fondly. “I love you,” he says, though he meant to say something else entirely.

“Aw angel,” Crowley chuckles and sidles the phone back onto his shoulder. “So, lover, where are we going?”

Aziraphale is incredibly surprised by the hot pulse that takes him at hearing _lover _tossed out by the demon so casually. “Uhh,” he’s completely lost his train of thought. “I, uh, was thinking,” he sputters, and has to take a second of just holding his head in his hand to push himself back into the frame of mind he’d been in earlier.

“Oh,” he remembers suddenly. “Sushi! I read something about a chef, uhm, oh, what was his name?” he drums his fingers on his lips, thinking. “He’s in Tokyo, and he’s doing something really interesting, matured sushi, I think it was called.”

“’Matured sushi?’ What, it can drive a car, buy a drink?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gives a derisive snort, pushing his head into his hands, grinning in spite of himself. “It’s aged, I think?”

“You don’t _age_ raw fish,” Crowley squawks, and he can hear him thudding something heavy on his countertop. “It rots. You’re talking about eating rotting fish, angel,” he makes a disbelieving noise.

“I’d just like to try it,” Aziraphale shrugs, softly.

“Well, of course,” Crowley huffs. “We’re not going to Tokyo tonight, though, angel. Next time we’re in the neighborhood, I’ll make a point to get you some rotting fish heads.”

Aziraphale groans, wincing at the idea. “Crowley please,” he manages after recovering from his fit of disgusted laughter. “We can just stop by the local place; I don’t really feel up to anything too fancy.”

“Ah,” Crowley says, and he can hear him roughly kneading the dough, breathing into the speaker of his phone. “Hellfire still bothering you then?”

Aziraphale sighs, and pushes himself up from where he’d been leaning on the desk because his hip is frankly _screaming_ in pain at the positioning. “Yes,” he hisses tightly. If he was being honest with himself, he should probably decline the invitation and order in something again so that he can go easy on himself. He’s a little too interested in seeing the demon again to listen to that particular train of thought, though.

“I’ll stop by once I get this loaf out of the oven, eh?” Crowley puffs a little, and Aziraphale hears another slap as he tosses the dough around again.

“That sounds lovely dear.”

* * *

Crowley ties his hair back into a small, loose ponytail, knowing that it’ll unfurl from the tail throughout the night. His head’s a little too tender for a braid at the moment. He goes for a boat-necked, dark violet shirt with oversized sleeves, a filmy black shawl, and skin-tight black pants. He’s in the mood, so he smooths on some dark lipstick and rushes off to pick up Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is limping today, Crowley notes as he jumps out of the Bentley to help the angel to the car. “Oof, angel, you should’ve mentioned—” he stops himself, because the angel’s never really liked talking about the limp that crops up occasionally.

Aziraphale stops entirely in place, agog at the genderfluid, lipsticked creature worrying his way over to him. Crowley stops himself when he sees the angel eying him up, and grins widely, spreading his arms out, presenting the oversized sleeves, and well, himself.

“Hey, angel, I’m not binding,” Crowley smirks, gesturing at his chest. It was meant in the sense of _hey, I’m not upsetting your stupid standards of ‘taking care of myself,’_ but the flush coloring Aziraphale’s cheeks deepens down his neck, and he swallows thickly as he sees a completely different message: _and you’re not wearing a bra, either_. (He was, actually, but Aziraphale is fairly unfamiliar with the idea that there are such things as strapless bras, and that breasts, especially ones bound down much of the time, wouldn’t appear so enticing without a little support.)

Once Aziraphale finds his voice, he manages, “You look stunning, dear.”

Crowley gives him an embarrassed smile, hand habitually curling hair around his ear, “Yes, well...” He goes to take the angel’s hand, but Aziraphale does a sudden about-face and walks back into the store. “Angel?” Crowley’s voice cracks on the word.

Aziraphale disappears deeper into the shop, and Crowley can’t jiggle the doors open. It’s light enough to see towards the back of the shop, and he can discern that there’s a section of the store cordoned off with plastic and tarps. _What’re you doing in there?_

Aziraphale rushes back out, still doing up his cufflinks, and nearly blazes right past Crowley in his rush. When he’d first come out, he’d been wearing one of his standard suits in a medium brown, a bit bland, but generally pretty safe to go with Crowley’s usual black and red color scheme. It would clash terribly with Crowley’s violet and black get up, so he’s now in a crisply pressed, three-piece suit in cool-gray that hints towards lavender, waistcoat a contrasting dark gray with various lavender accoutrements poking out of pockets and buttonholes.

“Well,” Crowley breathes, a bit taken aback. Aziraphale cleans up nicely, and honestly, he’s always ‘cleaned up’ in comparison to Crowley. When he goes the extra mile, Crowley goes a little light-headed. “You look good,” he gives Aziraphale a bright, wondering smile, which causes the angel to wiggle a little with pleasure.

Crowley offers his arm to the angel again and helps him to the car, and then rushes around to the driver’s side. He vaguely notices a human couple doing a double-take at them, but doesn’t bother to warrant it any concern.

“Hellfire bothering you, eh?” Crowley raises his eyebrows and motions his head towards the angel’s hip where he’s gingerly easing into his seat.

“Yes, a bit,” Aziraphale nods, crinkling and uncrinkling his fingers with a wince.

“Had to take a five-minute shower this morning, scalp’s still sensitive,” Crowley chuckles, shaking his head and jerking the Bentley into drive. He takes a left, and begins driving in the general direction that he knows Aziraphale’s usual sushi haunt is. They don’t go there as often as they’d used to, and Crowley hadn’t really thought too much about it. Maybe something had happened to the food and it wasn’t as good?

They’re remarkably quiet during the drive, amicably so, just occasionally remarking on odd parking jobs or queer pedestrians. Crowley doesn’t drive quite so fast today, perhaps because he’s not feeling the best, or perhaps because he doesn’t need the distraction from not pining at the creature sitting across from him. He parks close to the entrance, and rushes around the Bentley to catch Aziraphale’s arm and help him walk again. It takes two tries to get him out of the Bentley, hissing and huffing in pain. Crowley is gentle and patient, and once they enter the restaurant, he entangles their fingers and gives Aziraphale an anxious, warm smile.

The staff is a little startled to see Aziraphale in something other than beige or white, so for a moment, they honestly don’t recognize him. Aziraphale asks after the head waiter’s son, how a waitress’ classes are coming along, and that gins everyone into gear. The staff is a little alarmed to see Aziraphale arriving with an _escort_ on arm, and hm, not the type they’d been expecting, if they’re being honest.

To be fair, it has been over a decade since they’ve seen Crowley, and while he’s always been genderfluid, he’s not making any effort to hide his chest or blend in as an effeminate masculine-bodied person like he used to when he was in the mood to present femme. Crowley’s smile goes taut as a number of people frown at him and take long looks at his chest and hips, trying to discern _hmm, I was expecting a man, but hmm, maybe, is that a man?_

Once they’re seated, Aziraphale softly apologizes to him. “I’m really not sure what’s gotten into them,” he sighs, and rubs his temple idly, attempting to will away the blazing pain in his hip, certainly not helped by the rude behavior of people he’d trusted.

Crowley manages to bite back the _it’s fine_ that nearly pushes through his gritted teeth. He almost doesn’t notice the surreptitious way the waiter leans over him to get a better look at him when he places their cups down. He glowers after the man as he retreats. “First time for everything,” he grimaces a little, and sips the green tea that’s been presented to them.

“I’m sorry, dear, we can leave if you like,” Aziraphale places a hand on his knees where they’re crossed, and Crowley freezes. _Well, this is new._

His eyes tick up to Aziraphale’s, which already look a bit worn down with his aches and pains. _I’ll take all the misgendering fucks in the world if it means you’ll keep your hand right there_, he thinks hard, but what comes out of his mouth is, “You wanted sushi, angel, you’re getting it.”

Aziraphale flushes a little at that, but nods with a shaky smile. Crowley isn’t particularly hungry, so Aziraphale orders the omakase and throws himself into enjoying the food. He’d eaten greasy chips and microwave dinners the last two nights, so it’s refreshing to have some food that he can truly sit back and enjoy. He even manages to forget about his hand and hip a little after enjoying a number of nigiri with Crowley looking on appreciatively. The staff has finally relaxed as Crowley’s pushed out a hardy pulse of “piss off” and thus, they all go about their business, suddenly reminded that there are more important things than an old regular who suddenly has a friend of _whatever_ gender with him.

Crowley’s slowly eating green tea ice cream, and eying Aziraphale as he takes deep appreciative breaths of the tamago that’s just been set before him. He’d usually enjoy a few more rounds of sushi, but the pain is making it difficult to enjoy the evening, as much as he’s endeavoring to ignore it. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the slightly sweet delicate layers.

“You done?” Crowley asks, surprised, spoon still in mouth.

Aziraphale looks at him, a little haggard around the edges but warm, sated, and happy in spite of it. “Yes. Are you?”

“Uhm,” Crowley looks down at the tiny lump of ice cream he’s been slivering sections off of for perhaps fifteen minutes. He gives the angel a bright smile and finishes it. “Of course,” he manages to make it sound like he’s talking with his mouth full, even though it’s just a meager amount of ice cream.

Aziraphale laughs a little at the show. It doesn’t take long to take care of the bill, and soon Crowley is gingerly leading the angel back to the Bentley. Aziraphale slags the waitstaff to sooth Crowley, and Crowley, chuckling, tells him worse stories of misgendering, proving how difficult it is to be not quite here, not quite there. It’s not long before they’re back at the shop, and Crowley delicately leads the angel into his shop.

As they near the back of the shop, Aziraphale waves to ensure the signs are pointed towards “closed,” everything’s locked up, and lightly releases Crowley’s arm that’s supporting him and snakes his arm around the demon’s waist instead. Crowley squeaks and pinks a little, but smiles at the angel appreciatively.

They loiter awkwardly near the sofa, trying to figure out what they’re going to do next, and where.

“Let’s sit, dear,” Aziraphale breaks the silence and idle shifting of weight. He limps to the near side of the couch, releasing the demon’s waist.

Crowley follows him and sits directly next to him, enjoying the heat the angel’s giving off. Aziraphale wipes sweat off his brow, huffing breath and looking tired for a moment. Crowley watches him worriedly, head tilting a little.

“I could try giving you a backrub?” he offers, wiggling his newly manicured fingers at the angel.

Aziraphale sighs appreciatively and nods. Crowley gets up and moves over to the armrest Aziraphale’s next to and motions for the angel to turn so his back will be to him. Aziraphale struggles, but manages to get his legs up on the sofa and turn his back. Crowley takes his glasses off and tucks them _somewhere_, and brings his thin fingers to the angel’s tense shoulders. He’s no masseuse, but he knows how to sense the tension in muscles and follow it up or down to a source, knead that out and then trace back to another knot, and rinse and repeat.

Aziraphale’s still in his coat, and after a few minutes of Crowley rubbing at his shoulder ineffectively, Aziraphale mutters and shrugs him off. He struggles out of the overcoat, and after another moment, he pulls off the waistcoat too and hands it to Crowley as well.

“Just hang ‘em up,” his voice is dark with pain. “I’ll put them away later.”

“Sure,” Crowley says softly, and gently shakes out the two items and puts them each on separate hooks on the coat rack. It’s always lovely to see the angel in anything less than a three-piece suit, but his interest in the sight is completely gutted by worry. He closes his eyes and brings his hands back to the angel’s tense shoulders, thumbing for the tight knobs he needs to ease. For some reason, it’s easier for him to feel where to massage with his eyes closed, following a line of something from Aziraphale’s collar bone down to just under his shoulder blade.

“Ah, careful,” Aziraphale starts, back stiffening, and Crowley hears a _shuff_ of wings being rustled. He cracks an eye, but there’s no wings manifested yet. He presses delicately around the area, feeling out the lump of tension. He closes his eyes again, gently dragging his knuckles along it, following the lines of his ribcage. Aziraphale starts each time he rubs over it, but he doesn’t warn him again. It takes nearly a minute of gently concentrating on the area before it begins to blend out and ease, and Crowley’s squinting, eyes seeing something not quite _here_.

Crowley’s given massages mostly to human people, in the past. Children so tense they came crying to him because they couldn’t sleep, and he would ease them into bed, fingers unlacing their rigid muscles while he recited a familiar lullaby until sleep overcame them. He wasn’t sure exactly why he was so good at it; he assumed it had to do with all of the death and dismemberment he’d suffered throughout the ages. There’s something different about following the seams of tension on Aziraphale’s back though, Crowley notices with a frown. His pressure points and muscle mapping just don’t _make sense_.

He gently pushes Aziraphale forward with one hand so that he can rub at a deep knot under one of the shoulder blades, and Aziraphale’s making a noise which he would describe as a purr, a deep, somewhat pleased thrumming in the back of his throat as he needles his fingers around the angel’s spine. He’s faintly looking in the Other Space without really thinking about it, and usually, when he sees Aziraphale there, he looks as banal as Crowley usually does: human shaped with one (1) pair of wings, white. As Crowley digs his knuckles into the muscles of Aziraphale’s lower back, he gets a glimpse of something more.

Aziraphale has a blazing halo, which should sting Crowley with his current sensitivity to heavenly things, but it just stings in the sense that it’s bright this time. Beneath that, Crowley counts five and a half pairs of wings. The cleave on his hip is visible here, exposed and vulnerable, a webbing of gold and flesh kintsugi and, _ah_, he squints, _it’s not quite five and a half wings, now is it?_ He digs his hands, lower, almost as if he’s going to grope the angel’s plush buttocks, and he finds the point he’s been looking for around the nub of the sixth pair and digs into it with thin, direct fingers.

Aziraphale shouts, starting forward in surprise and Crowley is pushed back by a number of fluffy white wings. Crowley splutters a little, down fluffing in the air and waves his hand to brush feathers out of his face.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs after a hot, embarrassed second. His hip is feeling better than it has in quite a long time, honestly. There’d been one masseuse in the early 1900s who had the touch, but he went away with the first world war, and since then it’s been pretty touch and go. The problem the angel’s currently burning up over is that he’s also had his wings tugged out, _all_ of them, and that’s rather too much for him to bear in front of the demon right this second.

Crowley sidesteps past the largest pair of wings, palming them twice, which causes Aziraphale to grip the cushion in front of him and rabidly bite his tongue to silence himself. He comes around the back of the couch, and hisses, “Ssssorrry,” with white down in his hair and sticking to his lipstick. They stare at each other for a moment, Crowley squinting a little, readjusting his eyes to _here_ and not _Elsewhere_.

He glances up at the wings, eying their disorder. “You should take better care of them,” he says a little repressively.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and groans. “You’re one to talk,” he grumbles darkly, and uses his hot embarrassment as fuel to push all of the wings back where they should be. He succeeds in all but the primary pair.

“Did that help?” Crowley asks, leaning over the couch a little. He rubs the feathers stuck to his lips off, somehow not dragging dark violet lipstick with it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale grumbles, and glowers at the demon. Crowley laughs easily at the sight of the angel so fussed, giving him a loose grin.

“S’pose the ends justify the means,” he lolls over the couch, threatening to fall over with how far he’s leaning.

Aziraphale has had enough of that smug look on the demon’s face, so he grabs him by the hand and pulls him onto the couch proper. Crowley squawks, tumbling forward and ending up on his back somehow, head in Aziraphale’s lap. It’s not quite what Aziraphale had intended; he would’ve liked it if Crowley had been wearing that silver scarf thing because he could’ve easily dragged him into kissing range then. Crowley blinks confusedly up at the angel and picks himself up after a second, settling across from him on the couch.

Aziraphale dusts a few more downy bits from his hair, and Crowley chuckles. He eyes the angel, considering the number of wings and the injury which most certainly had not been done by human hands.

“You know, I thought Principalities were supposed to be pretty… human. Ish,” Crowley gestures a little. He’s baiting, just a little. _I’ve always wondered, and I suppose we could actually talk about it now. You keep nagging **me** about opening up_.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs, smushing his face with his palm. “I wasn’t a Principality to begin with,” he gestures, looking irritated. “It’s complicated.”

Crowley scoffs a little, and splays back on the couch a little in repose. “You’re telling me, angel.”

Aziraphale looks over at the demon curiously, hand smushed over his chin and mouth. He still looks drained from dealing with pain all day. “I suppose I should’ve expected you would be sympathetic,” Aziraphale nods his head, allowing himself to realize that Crowley, of all people, _would_ understand.

Crowley pops up and bobs in place a little. “Wine? Red or white?”

Aziraphale rubs his face and drags his hand back into his hair. “White,” he shrugs after a second.

Crowley returns with two flutes and a Sauvignon Blanc. He pops the cork with practiced ease and delicately pours them out.

“I’ve never really talked about it,” Aziraphale sighs into his flute, and takes a second to just enjoy the aroma and texture of the wine. “I was part of one of the batches of angels created just because they needed bodies,” he grouses, his usual waving motions hindered by his hellfired hand. “They developed names for us later, but really, we were just spare parts put together.”

“We felt like that too,” Crowley offers, delicately sipping his wine. He’d prefer a red, but he can get through almost any wine with the angel for company. “We never got named as a choir, we all… fell,” Crowley’s voice gets a little thick at that, but he barrels through. “Creatives. Kind of a given, eh?” he sneers and shrugs effusively.

Aziraphale looks a little startled at that. “Yeah, I kind of got the idea that you weren’t like the other Principalities. ‘ve met a few of ‘em, and… they’re all these sweet, _idiot_ babes, no concept of what it was like… before,” Crowley picks at a stray thread in one of his flowing sleeves a little sullenly.

Aziraphale is desperately trying to figure out a way to express his gratitude to Crowley for talking with him about _before_, sharing _that_ with him, knowing how much any and all demons shied about talking about it, and it’s frankly stalling his motor. Crowley arches an eyebrow at the angel. “So, you got roped into, what? Shepherding? Watching?”

Aziraphale starts a little, remembering his part of the conversation. “Uh, no, filing, actually,” he nods into his glass, looking a little unhappy. “Oh, I could never say it, but the filing was _atrocious,_” he attempts to hold his glass in his aching hand and nearly drops it, shaking. He starts to say a name, but quickly stops himself.

“Dagon? We all know Dagon was lord of files up there too,” Crowley points up, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale nods, only mildly surprised that Dagon had apparently kept the title from Heaven onward. “They _tried_, goodness knows they did, but it was impossible with so many cascading concepts, ideas, everything interconnected, and He would just wake up one d-day, well, I, it wasn’t really days back then, but, you know,” he gestures a little with his wine glass. Crowley nods. “But every time we turned around the entire filing system would be outdated and we’d have to go and refile _everything_, not to mention the new stuff that kept coming in.”

“Yeah,” Crowley swirls the remainder of his glass. “She was very picky about some things. Go out and create a million things just as She asked, and you come back and ‘oh, I forgot to mention, I want it in yellow, and oh, did I mention that it needs to have these three elements in it as well?’” Crowley huffs.

Aziraphale nods, a _you get it!_ grin spreading on his face. “It was… trying,” Aziraphale offers. “But I suppose it all worked out in the end,” he sniffs.

Crowley scoffs, downing his glass. “When the war started up, they were taking anyone,” Aziraphale continues after a pause, motioning for Crowley to top him off. “I volunteered,” he shakes his head at himself, looking haggard at his idiotic, younger self’s decisions. “I’d been seeing flashes of it through the filing, and was like, ‘Hm, that could be interesting!’”

Crowley rolls his shoulders, and gives the angel a shrug, suggesting: _we all make mistakes_.

Aziraphale looks distant for a moment, eyes suddenly aging from the soft bastard Crowley was so familiar with. “Angel?” Crowley rests a palm on Aziraphale’s knee, edging closer.

“Ah,” Aziraphale looks down at Crowley’s hand, completely disappeared by a violet sleeve. He delicately draws back the material and gentles his hand over the demon’s, fingers too achy to entangle. “Sorry,” he tilts his head. “I… was good at it,” he says quietly, sipping his wine. “I regret it.”

“I doubt any of the other pricks regret it,” Crowley grouses, wagging his free hand around to enjoy the sweep of his oversized sleeves.

Aziraphale cocks an eyebrow at him, _oh, we both know that’s not true, don’t we?_

“Well, they were certainly gonzo to start it all up again, anyway,” Crowley huffs, and finally puts his empty glass down before he accidentally hurls it with a gesture, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Aziraphale nods, and unconsciously his wing curls around Crowley protectively. “The Principality position was a… hm,” he sips his flute, idly. “I wasn’t the same after the injury, and they… needed me off of the battlefield.”

“Ah,” Crowley nods.

“I still remember Gabriel taking me aside, telling me how it wasn’t a _bad thing_ to not be on the frontlines anymore, just that I clearly needed a break, and here, there’s a garden, and all you have to do is stand guard for _two_ measly humans,” Aziraphale shakes his head, brushing his curls back with the thumb of his hand that’s holding the flute.

Crowley nods a little, and suddenly notices the shade of the wing over him. “I was honestly terrified when you slunk up, that you were a demon I’d…” he makes a stabbing motion poorly with his aching hand.

Crowley shrugs a little, and nods. “No, no, I wasn’t really involved with all that.”

“So you’ve said,” Aziraphale nods, eyes downcast.

“Sorry to bring it up,” Crowley offers after a moment, squeezing the angel’s knee as he gets up. Aziraphale’s head pops up and he watches Crowley idly twirl around the back of the shop. “So, what’s with the plastic wrap, angel?” Crowley calls as he nearly crashes through one of the tarps.

Aziraphale struggles up after a moment to go after the demon, and his wings finally pull back in fully. “Mold, I’m afraid,” he gestures at the tome on the table he’s set up to slowly, meticulously clean his artifacts.

Crowley squints at the angel, considering, “I thought you had an anti-mold charm up.” Aziraphale sputters a little at that, caught off guard by something _he _should’ve remembered. He had put it up back when he’d opened the shop for the first time.

“I—yes, I-I did. I… suppose something must’ve happened to it,” he idly picks at his collar, feeling flushed all of the sudden.

Crowley _looks_ at the front of the shop where all the books are missing and reels back hissing. “Fuckin’ hell, Aziraphale!” he rasps.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale starts forward, fearing the demon’s been shot by a silenced sniper or something. “Are you alright?”

“You know, I didn’t think there was a limit to sigils before,” Crowley grits through his teeth. He’s fallen into the chair that used to be from his reading desk, now sitting at the restoring station. “I think you’ve,” he makes a frustrated noise, grinding his palms into his eyes, “_fuckin’ _found it though!”

“Oh-oh dear,” Aziraphale delicately pulls the demon’s hands from his face, but his eyes aren’t burned out or melted or anything terrible, just a little teary and frankly, very irritated at him.

Crowley scrubs at his eyes, shoving the angel off. “I guess you must’ve accidentally overwritten it or something,” he sniffs, very pointedly looking at _bookshelves_ and not thirty-foot sigils screaming (protective) death and dismemberment.

“It appears that way,” Aziraphale sighs, and now there’s _another_ thing to clean up.

They stand in silence for a moment, shuffling their feet, unfamiliar with this new footing in their relationship. They’ve had millennia of dancing around things, and having them suddenly available and thrust to the fore is… dizzying and stultifying.

Aziraphale breaks off first again, limping, not quite as badly, back to the couch. Crowley rushes forward, plucking up the wine to pour another round for them both and Aziraphale perches on the arm of the couch, startled from his initial goal by the demon’s motions. Crowley gestures for the angel’s glass, and fills him up again, but is interrupted by Aziraphale taking a step closer, their eyes locking together mesmerized. Crowley arches an eyebrow at the angel as he motions and miracles the wine and glasses over to the coffee table, out of Crowley’s hands.

His good hand gently readjusts the shawl over Crowley’s shoulders where it’s nearly falling off, almost distracting from his bringing his face closer and a little awkwardly kissing the corner of Crowley’s mouth. He’s not really drunk enough to warrant missing, but he’s certainly anxious enough. He retreats quickly as he realizes his mistake.

Crowley’s violet lips stretch into a wide grin, and he acquiesces, leaning forward and pressing their lips together. They mutually deepen the kiss, and Aziraphale stumbles backward into the arm of the couch. Aziraphale tastes like wine and sushi, and he radiates a comforting warmth up close. One of Aziraphale’s hands pulls the tie from his ponytail and digs into the dense hair at the back of his head, and Crowley groans and pushes himself closer. It quickly heats up, soft needy moans escaping from both of them as they rock back and forth into each other, trying not to destabilize the other from their position. Crowley finally takes a firm step forward so that his legs hit the arm of the couch, and he uses the hand that’s not currently entangled in white curls to grope around the angel’s back, supporting him. 

Crowley feels a bit like he’s in the middle of a lit fire, heat flaring from his toes up to his skull, both from the angel’s body heat and his own arousal igniting within him. He nearly faints as Aziraphale takes one hand and places it on his lower back and guides him forward, grinding him into the angel’s crotch as he cants it over the arm of the couch. They both break the kiss at that, groaning and gasping. Aziraphale’s eyes worriedly dance over Crowley’s face, checking for any sign of terror or horror. All he sees is _want _and _lust_ as Crowley’s eyes stare fuzzily somewhere on his cheek, processing, and then Crowley licks his smudged lips, and grabs his head and thrusts his tongue back into his mouth.

Aziraphale moans and returns his fervor with interest. Crowley’s brain is struggling to process, well, everything, including the sudden topsy-turvy change of _hey, we can just kiss now_, so it takes him a second to begin feeling out everything else. One of Aziraphale’s hands is entangled in his hair, kneading and petting through the locks at the back of his head, another is gripping his shoulder lightly, and… a third? is pressing hard into his lower back and holding him there, occasionally pressing harder to encourage him to grind forward. The fourth is currently unknown to Crowley, braced and shaking against the couch, desperately keeping them both from tumbling backwards. It’s apparently not enough for Aziraphale to just hold him there with his hand, and he whimpers as he breaks the kiss for a millisecond, crooking a knee around Crowley’s legs to pull him in, against him, and hold him just ah, just _there_.

Crowley gets tugged forward, and casts out with a hand to grip the couch, other hand dipping to Aziraphale’s lower back to scoot him forward. They pant at each other for a second, eating up the flush and want on each other’s faces. Crowley hungrily kisses him again, leaning forward, and frankly wishing he was not wearing quite so tight of jeans right now. Aziraphale’s hand digs lower, groping him and pulling him forward again, and Crowley finally pieces together the other thing that’s been nagging at him as they grind meaningfully into one another.

Crowley is hard. He’s very clearly hard, there is very clearly something there as he grinds into Aziraphale’s crotch at his behest, again, and his eyes would roll back into his head and he’d wonder if he could come from just kissing and grinding… but. But Aziraphale’s… not?

He makes a soft curious noise, and Aziraphale whimpers in response, eyes fluttering open. Crowley rocks his hips forward one more time, eyes downcast and brow furrowed. He somehow misses the angel’s moan and eye-roll that follows that motion, so concentrated on what’s going on below their respective belts.

No, that definitely is not a hard cock that he’s grinding against. He breaks the kiss suddenly, going cold with the idea that _Aziraphale is not making the effort_. He sputters a little, reeling back, and rubs his entirely smudged lips with the back of his hand as he casts around for _something _to stuff in front of his crotch to disguise the fact that he most certainly _had_ been making the effort. It’s a bit awkward to arrive at a party all dressed up and realize it was just a basic affair, and that was sort of what he was feeling right now, but magnified by quite a bit.

He ends up shivering, leg bouncing, as he drapes himself on the back of Aziraphale’s preferred armchair. “Ssssorry,” he hisses, still rubbing lipstick from his face.

Aziraphale exhales deeply, rubbing his face a little as well. They both have violet smudges all around the lower halves of their faces. Aziraphale’s about to ruefully remark about _ah, too much, my apologies_, when Crowley breaks in, voice tight, “Alright, angel?”

His brain is working overtime as he tries to figure out how the angel could make those delicious, delightful noises and look like _that_, pink and glazed with sweat, but… not make the effort? He really wants to bark the question out, but there’s really no way to phrase it that won’t sound ridiculous, or barbed, or embarrassing so he just stares pointedly at the angel, jiggling a little all over.

Aziraphale shakes his head a little to clear it, and frowns at Crowley. “I, uh, I’m fine,” he settles into the couch, and considers the shivering demon wiggling with excess anxious energy while hiding behind his favorite armchair. “Are you? Okay?”

Crowley looks away from him sharply, chewing his lip, brain still busy trying to solve this conundrum. “Crowley?” Aziraphale pushes himself off the couch with a little difficulty, _okay, kissing and groping with a sore hip is not a great idea, duly noted_.

Crowley jumps a little at his name, and rapidly pulls a pair of glasses from _somewhere_ and stuffs them onto his face. “Fine,” he states tensely, still vibrating. The glasses he pulls from Elsewhere are not always the ones that he put away most recently, so he’s just pushed a pair of his preferred ‘70s era glasses, blocky and square, onto his face.

Aziraphale scowls at him, and crosses his arms. “Clearly not,” he grumbles, snappish thanks to his own frustrated libido.

Crowley gives him a curious look, but doesn’t offer anything more. “I suppose now is as good a time as any,” Aziraphale limps over to a display case away from the demon, and pulls down a thick, bright-red Oxford dictionary that’s only a few years old. It’s one of the few uninfected artifacts from the students.

“For?” Crowley barks, still vibrating and desperately trying to shake off his obvious arousal.

“We need a word, clearly,” Aziraphale states primly, and sits on the couch, spreading the dictionary across his lap. 

It takes Crowley a long moment before he remembers what they need a word for. “Oh,” he huffs, and slinks forward over the edge of the chair and performs a very inhuman maneuver of somersaulting easily, upright, into the chair. He crosses his legs quickly, and smiles brightly at the angel as his leg bobs. _Nothing to see here, no sir!_

Aziraphale shakes his head at the show, and sips his wine, considering the dictionary. He’s read dictionaries plenty of times, but it’s trickier to find a word like this when there’s not a guiding principle, really.

“Canterbury,” he offers, after opening it up to a random page. Crowley’s eyebrow quirks up at that, and he shakes his head, chuckling.

“Should probably be short, eh?” his voice is a little husky, and it makes several parts of Aziraphale’s anatomy pang. He recovers with a cough, and nods, taking a deep sip of wine.

“Just a syllable, or two,” Aziraphale agrees, flipping forward a bit.

“You ever used one before,” Crowley rasps softly, lust and anxiety draining out of him and just leaving him with that familiar clutching exhaustion. It’s a question, but he can’t bring up the energy to punctuate it as such.

Aziraphale thumbs forward a few pages, humming, apparently not hearing him. “Ooh, _devil_,” he wiggles an eyebrow at Crowley even as he fuels the word with spite, as in _you, right now_.

Crowley laughs softly, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. “What, shall we use ‘angel’ then?” his lip curls in a sneer, similar energy in his jab.

Aziraphale glowers at him for the suggestion. “No, I don’t think so,” he primly shakes his head, lips pursed.

Crowley chuckles lightly. Aziraphale flips forward a bit more, wincing at certain words as he passes them. His mind is still hot with passion, so he keeps picking out words like _grope_, _in-and-out_, _quench_. He makes a frustrated noise, and closes the book with a snap after reading out the few short, pithy, not-passionate words that strike him, each resolutely denied by the demon.

Crowley’s cleaning his glasses on his oversized sleeve, and Aziraphale notes the aching exhaustion has returned, hidden behind giant frames. _Damn it_.

“S’pose we’ll think of something,” Crowley offers ineffectually, popping out of the chair and stretching.

“Hm, no,” Aziraphale crosses his arms and points a pout at him. Crowley gives him a surprised look. “We need a word now, so that… we’re clear,” he rocks his shoulders a little, feeling a little uncomfortable with forcing the issue.

“Hmm,” Crowley nods a little, and walks past Aziraphale with purpose. Aziraphale starts up, spinning around to follow the demon lest he try to scarper.

Crowley’s danced up his ladder to the second floor where he keeps his science books. He plucks a tall book from the shelf and flips to the index.

“Higgs-Bozon,” he drawls, finger tracing down the list. “Proton. Hmm,” he pauses, and cracks the book to a page. “Huh, I was right,” he smiles a little.

“What?” Aziraphale calls, unwilling to scramble up his ladder with his hip still aching.

“String theory,” he waves a hand dismissively and flips around in the book, not interested in getting into the story because it’s frankly boring. “Uhm,” he pauses, and places a thumb in his place and slides down the ladder, Aziraphale stumbling back so that he doesn’t get trampled. Crowley cracks the book open on a large, double-page spread of a beautiful, full-color nebula.

“Nebula?” he offers, anxiously smiling and unsure.

Aziraphale tilts his head, considering the blaze of gases printed on the glossy pages. “It’s short,” he nods, and considers it. “Nebula,” he swishes it in his mouth, like a fine wine. “It could work,” he nods.

“You’ll use it?” Crowley asks, earnest. _You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?_

“Yes?” Aziraphale nods, brow crinkling in confusion.

The tension hangs between them, and for a moment, they could almost resume right where they left off, necking like teenagers. Crowley coughs a little, and dashes up the ladder to replace the book. “You should get a pole,” he calls, looking down at the angel and up at the dome of opaque windows, “Like in that movie.”

“What movie?” Aziraphale cocks his head, hand on hip, flustered by what the demon’s suggesting.

“Buster’s Day Out? No,” he shakes his head, and skates down the ladder again. “Something with a ‘b,’” he drums his fingers on his lips, thinking.

Aziraphale does, surprisingly, watch movies, but he’s taken to it with the same categorizing, organizing mind that he has the written word, and is currently somewhere in the mid ‘40s, far before anything Crowley might be currently referencing. He finds them a little overstimulating, all told, so he only watches them in small bouts. He may have accidentally created streaming media, much like Crowley had accidentally predicated smart homes and cars. 

The conversation fizzes and starts for a little as they both try to be delicate, and avoid landmines. Crowley decides to take his leave after the angel flumps into a chair, looking exhausted and wincing in pain. They agree to meet in a few days, or call, or something, and Crowley gently brushes his lips across the angel’s knuckles as is becoming their new goodbye ritual.

“Let me know if your hip gets too bad again,” Crowley offers, as he releases Aziraphale’s hand.

He’s not bothering to get up from his armchair, he’s going to resolutely sit here for the rest of the night and miracle himself hot cocoa and read. “I’ll think about it,” Aziraphale answers him coolly, and Crowley chuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious about the matured sushi, the name of the chef is Kouji Kimura. (It's not rotting fish heads, apologies for Crowley's insouciance).
> 
> Also, it might be confusing, but when Aziraphale refers to God he will pretty much always use He/Him pronouns, while Crowley will always use She/Her. That's just the way it is, gender and divinity, man!


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley’s started driving again. He used to drive a lot, when he’d first gotten the Bentley. It was how he’d stumbled upon plots related to the angel that eventually led him to dancing into a church and miracling a bomb onto their heads. Before automobiles, he’d walked a bit to think, but there was something much more personal about that. In a car, you were going somewhere and you were alone, by yourself with your thoughts. You didn’t have to step into the town shop and compliment someone’s daughter, or wanly smile and make small talk at a shepherd as he blocked your path with a passel of sheep. Well, you might still have to glumly wait for a shepherd with livestock in a car on some country roads, but it was less personal. You could even be impersonally annoying, honking and hollering at the poor sheep and shepherd, but Crowley only did that once when he was especially flustered and pressed for time.

The Bentley, or any vehicle really, is another layer between him and the world. People see the car before they see him inside of it, and that’s kind of lovely in its own way. His skin feels thin, hardly enough to contain and hide him, but between the glasses and the car, there’s enough protective plating that he can feel safe.

He’s driving all around London, looking for something. Partially, it’s an angelic agent, first that particular one, then _any_ because if they’re targeting him, that means that they’ll be targeting Aziraphale as well. Hell isn’t together enough to figure their way through Aziraphale’s sigils and wards, so if anyone gets him, it’ll be an agent like the one Crowley interacted with. He couldn’t miss the unbridled hate in Gabriel’s eyes, so of course that’s what he’s expecting.

There are agents around London, and elsewhere as he starts casting out farther, but they’re just doing their own thing, passing messages, blessing, cursing, the everyday things. He begins to realize that their being cast-out by their bosses means there’s a bit of a power vacuum now, and it’s being filled by temporary agents, carefully placed, never pairing two together for longer than necessary and ensuring they stay outside of he and Aziraphale’s spheres of influence. He leaves the poor souls alone, and they do the same for him.

He finds himself in Wales today, boredly driving around. It’s not what he’s looking for, but he slows to a stop near an old, worn church. It’s the only thing in this town really, besides winding roads and homes strewn about willy-nilly. It’s nearing evening, and honestly, Crowley’s a little curious. He parks the Bentley, and snoozes the alarm he’s set to remind himself to call the angel if he’s away from home.

He spends a moment just surveying the church, taking in the smattering of graves, bricked exterior, and lack of extensive iconography. It’s kind of bland, honestly. There’s no stained glass or statuary, and were it not for the graveyard, it might just be a large, awkwardly built house. He can feel it, though, faintly. He takes a deep breath, and crosses the street, jumping the rock fence and loping towards the open door.

Some churches are so holy that they smell like ozone from a few feet back. Crowley knows, because he’d sniffed around a few scriptoriums back in the day while looking for the angel. This one just smells a little faintly of old stonework and moss. He stumbles on the rough-hewn steps and the brickwork of the church heats his hand a little. He lurches a few feet forward, away from the hot bricks, and stands in place, panting. It’s _hot_ in here, like a sauna but a little worse. He’s beading sweat, and he’s starting to feel the heat creeping through his shoes as well, as if he’s standing on the edge of a volcano or a heat vent.

He runs off, stumbling over the steps again, when the bored man thumbing through a book at the front of the church notices him, and starts towards him with interest.

After dancing through the church in the ‘40s, he hadn’t been able to walk for a month. He’d gotten around with just the Bentley and a wheelchair for a while. He floors the Bentley and rushes, too fast, from the run-down church and careens around tiny streets without really thinking about where he’s heading.

His feet don’t feel like they did back then. He’s recovering quite well from the church, honestly, cooling down as if it had just been a particularly hot, close room and he just needed a little air. _Well, that’s a little unnerving_.

Once he’s caught his breath and his bearings, he thumbs his phone and listens to ringing for a second.

“A.Z. Fell—” Aziraphale starts, sounding much too chipper because he _knows_ it’s Crowley as it’s after hours.

“Hey angel,” Crowley interjects, chuckling a little at his stubborn adherence to his work-phone greeting.

“What’re you up to tonight, dear?” Aziraphale asks, and he can hear him carrying the phone back to his little restoring nook.

“Uh,” Crowley drums his thumbs on the steering wheel as he pauses at a stop light. “Out and about,” he shrugs. It’s been nearly a week since they’ve last seen each other, and Aziraphale has started poking, gently, about wanting to go out together again. He’s been ‘out and about’ the last couple of times though.

“You’re not avoiding me, are you?” Crowley hears him shaking a bottle full of something that sounds fizzy.

“’Course not,” Crowley scoffs, and zooms off as the light changes. He needs to find an inn or something because he was rousted the last time he’d dozed in the back of the Bentley. “Just a bit busy, ‘s all.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hums, and Crowley grumbles because he can see the knowing look on Aziraphale’s face at that.

“How’s the restoring coming along?” he asks, puffing a little after veering around a loaded truck.

“Oh, it’s going, you know. It’s much better now that I’ve resorted the charms on the shop, though,” Crowley hears an indistinct tapping noise for a moment. “I do have to thank you for pointing that out my dear.”

It’s the tack he’s been taking since yesterday to get Crowley out to dinner again. As if they needed a reason to go out to dinner at this point.

“I’ll be back in town tomorrow,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face and nearly hitting a pedestrian. He lurches out of the way at the last moment.

“Oh?” Aziraphale perks up.

“Yeah,” Crowley offers tightly, not really ready to deal with everything but also similarly desperate to see the other being again.

They stay on the line with each other for a bit, idly talking and sitting in silence, just enjoying each other’s company even through the distance of a phone line.

“Gotta go angel,” Crowley’s pulled into the parking lot of an inn just outside of Cinderford and an elderly man walking his dog is eying him suspiciously. “Love you,” he calls, and the man huffs and keeps walking at that.

“Love you too, dear. Take care of yourself.”

* * *

The inn’s got a lot of spare rooms, and they’re happy to take him in. A horde of locals are cheering and jeering at some game, but Crowley just slinks off to his room. In the old days, he might’ve lounged about, worked a minor temptation or two like making the peanuts extra salty so that everyone would drink more, and then they’d all have even _worse_ hangovers tomorrow. He isn’t in the mood, and he honestly doesn’t have to anymore, so he just doesn’t.

He squirrels his way back to London the next day, continuing to avoid thinking about whatever's up with the angel by perusing shops. It’s not just agents he’s cruising for; he’s also curious about plant shops. Florists seem to be the most popular, but Crowley isn’t interested in selling chopped off bits of things. He’s figuring he’ll probably open a sort of nursery, some place you could buy potted plants of some variety, and maybe a packet of seeds or something.

He isn’t so hot on the idea of selling bulk soil, pots, or seeds, though. He just wants to have a space for _his_ plants and an operation where he owns the turf, so if he’s selling, people can’t just walk up and attack him out of nowhere. He pokes at a rack of seeds, and plucks out a few ceramic pots in sizes that he likes. There might be something to be said for being able to use a commercial discount on soil and buying in bulk. He could then overprice the goods in such a way that no one would ever buy them, and then they’d just be his in the end. That would be a sufficiently dastardly deed, truly.

The woman behind the till has a number of buttons and pins on her canvas apron, including a few rainbow flags that he recognizes. He smiles at her, and buys a tiny gardenia that’s sitting in the carton next to her as well.

The issue with nurseries is that they’re often a bit open-air with large, plate-glass windows inviting people in, advertising their stock of roses or tulips or whatever. He doesn’t really want anything like that. He’d have to worry about looking up from his work to see Ligur or Hastur pinned up against the glass making faces at him, stopped by his charms from entering, but still completely able to sass him through the windowfront.

He's considering back office spaces as an option. There are usually some grubby windows and enough electrical wiring that you could pipe in some sun lamps. He doesn’t get much of a chance to look at listings because he woke up late and he’s apparently going out with Aziraphale tonight, so he heads home to clean up.

He shrugs out of his clothes, a basic pair of black jeans, a dark blue cotton shirt, and an old leather jacket that he’s been freshening up with a little miracle each day as he hasn’t returned home. He tosses the things into his hamper and pops into his bathroom. He’s actually stubbly for the first time in ages; somehow, he usually manages to suppress facial hair growth. It’ll crop up sometimes, when he’s depressed and could give a fuck about his appearance, or if he’s in the mood for some absurdist goatee or other fashionable facial hair.

The shaving gel he pulls out has exploded out of the can and solidified into a strange, volcanic shape, so he tosses it and slathers his face in shampoo. He manages to nick himself twice around the troubling curve of jaw. As he pushes himself into the shower, he’s finally forced to confront what he’s been running from: _Why would Aziraphale not make the effort?_

He’s got a few running theories, but they all wither upon closer inspection. He knows the angel used to. They’d been in the roman baths together, and there’d been random times when they’d caught each other cleaning up in rivers or lakes. There’s also a sort of lived-in quality that making the effort develops in an entity. Aziraphale has had that for _ages_, but perhaps it has more to do with his hedonistic enjoyment of other bits of his corporation. Angels and demons that don’t fully wiggle into their corporations tend to feel a little distant and cold, unwilling to fully commit to the act, or too scared to deal with how much they might _enjoy_ fully committing to it.

Crowley makes a few idle attempts at going all ken doll, but it immediately reverts. There are periods where he’s needed to turn off the breasts or switch from the penis, but he just can’t hold it very well unless he’s truly in the mood to present that way. His body rubber bands, usually at quite the wrong moment, back to its comfort-state. Well, once it had been the _right_ moment, as he interrogated a rather stubborn young Russian woman about some plans he needed, and his well-cut suit had suddenly blossomed out as his chest reasserted itself. It had been terribly embarrassing, but it had won him the plans in the end as she was apparently _very_ interested in an American woman with slicked-back hair and a rakish smile pretending to be a man.

_Well, this is going to be frustrating_, Crowley sighs, turning off the water and toweling off. He braids his hair back into a pair of French braids that knit into one, and considers his wardrobe.

* * *

He pulls up to the bookstore somewhere around 4 pm, and sidles in as a flustered mother pushes her way past him. Crowley considers her curiously, and ends up walking backwards into the store and nearly colliding with the angel.

“Oof!” Aziraphale stumbles back, and then quickly puts his arms out to catch Crowley as he falls, flailing, backwards.

They stare at each other, blushing, for a moment, before a customer coughs a little near the till.

“Right,” Crowley snaps up, and walks off towards the stacks as if this was a very normal interaction, and Aziraphale has to keep himself from avidly watching his retreat. Crowley’s dressed in a crimson pirate shirt with tight black pants and a thick snake-themed belt tied around his waist with a bold silver buckle. He’s carrying his black duster over his shoulder, and Aziraphale could honestly slobber over him for hours.

He restrains himself and shoos the customer away after a few minutes, and then rousts the rest of the stragglers hanging around the shop. One of them squawks about Crowley being allowed to stay, thumbing through something old and weathered with illuminated pages.

“Yes, yes, terribly unfair of me, goodbye now!” Aziraphale pushes the bespectacled man out and locks the door rapidly behind him. He stares at Crowley, taking him in, up and down a few times, and Crowley huffs a small laugh at him as he notices. He shelves the book delicately, and lopes towards him, slouching with his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry to startle you,” he shrugs a little.

“N-no, no bother, really,” Aziraphale nods rapidly, clutching the locked doorknobs so he doesn’t rush over and thrust his face into the vee of flesh exposed by the pirate shirt.

Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him, concern wrinkled into his debonair grin, “Everything alright?”

Aziraphale forces himself to take a deep breath and shake himself. He had hoped the demon might call to alert him that he _was_ going to be in town, and not shirk him off again. He could then make an attempt to compose himself… as if there would be a way that he could compose himself at this point in their relationship, especially if Crowley keeps dressing _like that_. “Like that” being, well, pretty much anything the demon wore, at any given time.

“Just surprised, that’s all,” he gives him an anxious smile.

“Ah,” Crowley rocks on his feet a little. “I could, uh, come back later?” his fingers idly check over the braids for strays, and Aziraphale’s eyes follow the motion, something hot behind them.

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale starts up, and begins towards the back of the shop. “Let me just freshen up, and we’ll be out.”

* * *

Aziraphale leads them to a small, lacey café and bakery that’s opened somewhat recently. He’s dressed to match Crowley in the dark brown suit he’d discarded last time, and they both may have made a bit of mistake because apparently this is a cat café, and many of the cats are lighter in color.

They sit at a small table near the back and sip their preferred drinks and Crowley ends up utterly draped in cats. He loves it, of course, allowing two to crawl behind him in the duster and poke their heads out, blinkering at the light after the dimness of fabric. One of the older, heftier ones lumbers its way up to Aziraphale and promptly splats in his lap, making sure he gets a good dose of cat hair as well.

They laugh and enjoy themselves immensely, and on the way out, Aziraphale buys two pies and a cake, all cat-themed. Crowley chuckles a little, but helps him carry them back to the Bentley with only a little objection. Aziraphale secures the packages in his lap as they drive, just a little fast, back to the shop.

Crowley carries the boxes to the shopfront, scoffing at Aziraphale’s protestation as he waits for him to unlock the door. “Look, my hands are full,” Crowley smirks a little. It certainly hasn’t stopped him before. Aziraphale huffs, but opens the door, and waves so the appropriate lights turn on now that it’s late evening.

Crowley sets the goods out on one of the counters in the kitchenette, and pulls out a set of small chocolate cupcakes he’d bought secretly from his duster. He readjusts one of the buttercream ears with a finger, and then sticks it in his mouth, and offers the other cupcake to Aziraphale.

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiles, and takes it. “They are quite darling, aren’t they?”

Crowley nods, and gently peels back the paper, taking a pinch of cake off to test. It’s not the _best_ cake he’s had, but it doesn’t bother him.

Aziraphale gestures for him to exit the kitchenette, and then toddles in himself. He sets the cupcake on the counter next to the boxes of goodies, saving it for later, then pops open the carton with a cake: a chocolate ganache with icing painting it like a calico cat. He grins a little at Crowley, gesturing at the craftsmanship, and Crowley nods appreciatively, licking chocolate icing off of his thumb. He’s trying not to scarf the cupcake whole with Aziraphale still fussing about.

Aziraphale cuts himself a healthy slab of cake, and pulls out an old blended red they had started on some years ago. That night had gotten a bit morose, and they’d ended it with stronger stuff, leaving over three-quarters of the wine left.

They settle on the couch, and Crowley only manages to make his cupcake last for a few minutes, though he tries desperately to draw it out.

“So, what have you been up to?” Aziraphale asks idly, drawing a thick forkful of cake to his mouth. Crowley watches him, memorizing the little uptick of his eyebrows, the pleasure of slowly chewing and tonguing the buttercream. He completely loses the question.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks as he takes another stab of cake.

“Uh,” Crowley forces himself to look away. “Was uh,” he scratches at his cheek idly. “Looking around, seeing if I could catch any agents, y’know,” he shrugs, as if it’s not important.

Aziraphale stops what he’s doing, setting his cake down and considering the demon. “Did you have any luck?”

Crowley peers back at the angel, looking a little guilty. “Yeah,” he shrugs after a second. “They’re replacing us, mostly.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts at that, something painful panging in his chest. _Replaced? Already? _

“Yeah, I couldn’t find anything useful,” he idly unties the tie at the bottom of his braid and begins kneading it out. It’s getting a little tight and starting to pull, making his head hurt.

Aziraphale watches him hungrily. He wants to ask _can I help you with that? _with a little sexual sneer, but instead he takes a long sip of wine.

“Your hand better?” Crowley gestures towards where the angel’s hands are currently gripping his own knees, white knuckled.

“Oh, oh yes, actually,” Aziraphale nods, and pulls his left hand back, stretching it a little. “Your head better, too?” Crowley nods, fingers digging along his scalp to chase the tingles where the hair must’ve been pulling earlier. Aziraphale watches him doing so intently until Crowley huffs a laugh. He makes a motion for the angel to come closer.

“If ya want,” he whispers quietly, and cants his head toward the angel.

Aziraphale gently threads his fingers through his hair and kneads at his scalp. Crowley melts, sighing happily.

“I love your hair when it’s long,” Aziraphale whispers, drawing his face in close to inhale the smell of Crowley’s shampoo.

“’s good,” Crowley chuckles a little, slipping his glasses off and slitting his eyes at the angel. “I like it, too.”

They stare at each other for a second, and then slowly lean into each other. Crowley expects a slow, soft bump into one another, and is a little startled by how eager the angel is, clamoring into his lap, and digging both hands deeply into his hair, moaning into his mouth. Crowley delicately rests his hands on the angel’s waist, and relaxes into it, trying to keep himself from getting aroused. _Just enjoy it for what it is. Just relax_.

Aziraphale’s just a little too hungry for it though, and he can’t help his response as the angel kisses down his jaw, tongue worrying at the nicks, and then slams their mouths back together with a possessive grunt. He’s still not used to Aziraphale’s much higher body heat, either, which inevitably makes him sheen with sweat. Unthinking, he pulls the angel’s hips in closer, and Aziraphale eagerly grinds down. Crowley burns with arousal at the direct contact of their groins, but a soft, scared noise escapes him at the realization, _again_, which causes Aziraphale to start back. Crowley pulls his head back in roughly, not particularly wanting to deal with it right now.

Aziraphale’s still not making the effort, and it’s bothering him, but it feels so good just tasting his mouth and sucking on the angel’s neck as he gasps, eyes going distant. Aziraphale grinds down again, hands dug into Crowley’s hair to hold him against his neck and causing Crowley to make another frustrated noise. _If you’re not going to try, then why are you teasing me like this, angel?_

It doesn’t help that Crowley likes being teased. If it was well-communicated and consensual, Crowley might be fine with this whole scenario. Crowley just feels sort of abandoned and dirty, something making his chest tight. He can’t shake the feeling of arriving at a party overdressed, but it’s rather impossible to miracle his junk away when it’s, hm, engaged.

Apparently, there’s something in his eyes, forlorn and longing, that stops the angel in his tracks as Crowley pulls off his neck. _This_ is why he wears glasses, he thinks, running his tongue over his bottom lip. He sees the dark want in the angel’s face as he follows the motions of his tongue, but the angel forces himself back on his haunches, sitting on Crowley’s knees. He’s eying Crowley intensely, waiting for something. _Oh right, a word. _

“Alright?” Crowley offers, eyebrow cocked. _Hey, you’re not saying it either even though you’re apparently only interested in pinning me to the couch with your tongue in my mouth._

“Yes,” Aziraphale huffs tensely, and finally looks away from him. With a little effort, Crowley removes his hands from the angel’s hips. He desperately wants to return to the reddening hickie on the angel’s neck, and the delicious noises he’d been making there, but apparently, they’re taking a break.

“Uh,” Crowley says after a moment, fingers curling around the cushion on the arm of the chair. “Is this okay, angel?” Crowley vaguely gestures at them. _What’re you looking for with this, angel, I’m getting mixed signals here._

Aziraphale eyes him, frowning. He bites back several snarky retorts like, _well, apparently not!_

“I’m enjoying myself,” he manages, delicately rubbing his shirtsleeve against his moistened lips.

“Okay,” Crowley shrugs a little at that, eyes on the bared vee of his throat, and starts leaning forward.

“Are you?” Aziraphale asks, pressing a hand to the demon’s shoulder to keep him there. Crowley looks up at him a little guiltily. _I’d think that’s obvious. You keep fuckin’ grinding against my bloody enjoyment, angel_.

“Uh, yes?” he says, eyes not quite fully serpent nor human, swirling yellow. Aziraphale’s a little curious about what his eyes would look like when he’s overcome by pleasure, and he has to close his own eyes for a moment against the press of lust at that thought. He’s startled a little by Crowley gently removing his bowtie from where it’s lying limply over one shoulder. The demon delicately lays it on the arm of the couch, breathing like he’s attempting to calm himself.

Aziraphale has several moments where he looks down at Crowley looking soft and a little hurt, and he violently wants to pin him down and have his way with him. He only barely manages to hold himself back. Crowley watches the emotions playing out on his face, looking a little wonderous and then guilty, eyes darting away. Finally, Aziraphale pushes forward and kisses him deeply again. Crowley groans, hand returning to the small of his back and digging into his curls, and Aziraphale grinds into him. Crowley shivers a little, a whiny moan creeping up his throat into the angel’s mouth.

_Guilt_, Aziraphale thinks hotly, mouth currently too occupied to converse. _Guilt about what?_

Crowley’s shivers get worse as they continue, Aziraphale pressing closer each time as if through bodily pressure or heat he could suppress the demon’s anxiety. Crowley’s getting terribly close, and he honestly can’t stand the idea of coming in his pants while the angel remains completely unaffected. But he also doesn’t want to stop, Aziraphale whimpering into his mouth and wrapping himself around him, closer still.

He’s holding himself on the edge, hoping desperately that he can maintain control when Aziraphale sucks on his adam’s apple with a hum while his hand begins getting worryingly close to his snake buckle. _Too much_, his breath hitches in chest_. _Crowley pops away thoughtlessly, suddenly splayed in Aziraphale’s preferred armchair, panting hotly.

Aziraphale squawks and falls rather embarrassingly onto his face.

Crowley’s lost his shirt somewhere in the evening, and his bra is a little askew. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair and lets out a long exhale. Aziraphale manages to fall back onto his couch, panting hotly himself. Neither of them are capable of words for a bit.

Crowley mutters an apology once he feels like he can manage walking, and waddles around the shop a little awkwardly, scooping up his shirt.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale calls a little breathlessly from his couch, hand over his flushed face.

“Mm?” Crowley’s voice is muffled as he struggles back into the crimson pirate shirt. He readjusts the cups of his bra, wincing a little as the fabric tugs on a tense nipple.

“I love you, dear,” Aziraphale sighs, and draws himself up. He’s unconsciously offering his hand, ready for the demon to kiss his hand in farewell as has become custom.

Crowley laughs a little, but shrugs and draws closer. He startles Aziraphale by pulling him into a quick, punishingly luscious kiss that makes Aziraphale swoon. He slips his glasses back on, something naughty in his eyes. _I can tease, too, angel_.

“See ya, lover,” he grins, and Aziraphale gawps as he limps awkwardly out of the shop. 

* * *

“I just don’t understand,” Aziraphale huffs grumpily, half-full mug tucked against his temple.

“Hmm,” his compatriot intones. He’s an older man named Roger, someone who he’d helped open and secure a queer bar in Soho some decades ago. “Have you asked him, directly?” Aziraphale’s eyes linger on his walrusy mustache as he speaks, fluffed with foam.

“Yes?” he sighs.

“_Directly?_” the man smirks at him, eyes dancing with laughter as he takes another sip.

“I, what, how am I even supposed to ask something like that,” Aziraphale gestures widely. “’Hey, Crowley, why do you freak out whenever we kiss?’”

“Well,” Roger huffs a laugh, “Maybe don’t phrase it like _that_.”

“Well then, how _do_ I phrase it then?” Aziraphale whines and takes a drag from his mug. Beer isn’t his favorite, so he may have leant a little on the taps, and now the bar has found itself with a dark, peanut-butter flavored stout on tap.

Roger sighs a little. He’s been hearing about Crowley and their torrid, forbidden relationship for decades at this point, and he’s honestly not surprised that they’re having trouble transitioning from work-rivals to lovers. “Maybe… hmm,” he rubs his chin scratchily. “Ask him if there’s something else that’s bothering him?”

“I’ve _tried_,” Aziraphale grouses. “He’s always like, ‘No, it’s fine!’” He shakes his head, darkly casting around the mostly empty bar for something to focus on. “We’ve even picked out a safe word, but it’s no good if he won’t _use it_.”

Roger’s bushy brows jump up in surprise, but well, he supposes that really shouldn’t surprise him. Aziraphale is very proper, perhaps _too _proper to not be a hiding a rather serious kink, and had been very pro-consent before that was even being talked about in the media.

“So, he doesn’t feel safe talking about it, then,” Roger cracks a peanut on the table between them.

“I—yes, but why?” Aziraphale grumbles, and cracks a peanut himself. “We’ve been opening up about other things,” he mutters through the peanuts.

“Maybe… you said it seems like you’re going too fast for him?” Roger toys with the shells that Aziraphale’s littering the table with, shepherding them into a pile. Aziraphale nods, stuffing a few more peanuts into his mouth miserably. “Maybe it’s just a bit much for him, but he’s scared to tell you… like, he doesn’t want to scare you off?”

Aziraphale squints at Roger, considering. “Could be,” he shrugs, and looks disappointed as he paws at the now empty bowl of peanuts.

“Ultimately,” Roger sighs, finishing his mug, tilting his head back. He thumps the mug back down on the table with a soft, satisfied, ‘ah.’ “Ultimately, you two just gotta talk it out, together. Maybe you oughta try a couple’s therapist?”

Aziraphale groans, holding his head in his hands. “You’re not the first person to suggest that,” he grumbles to the salty, peanut-shelled tabletop.

“Then, maybe you should listen,” Roger offers reasonably.

* * *

Crowley hasn’t slept since he got home, pacing around his flat. His music system has tried to ease his anxiety a few times, idly spewing Queen or something or other at him, but he keeps turning it off.

Aziraphale _likes_ kissing him, there was no doubt about that. Those were certainly moans and whimpers of pleasure, not pain, and Aziraphale is not a particularly good actor. He’d have known if they were faked.

Maybe it’s like him when he was sensorially overwhelmed, and Aziraphale just… shut that part off. Well, Crowley has never been able to properly shut off any of his senses, but well, the idea was sound. Maybe Aziraphale could?

_What if he’s specifically not making the effort because he’s thinks I’m—I’m dirty with the whole incubus thing?_

Crowley kicks at his couch, grumbling. He makes himself another slab of toast, the only thing he’s eaten in the past hours since he’d left the bookshop. The bread is good, but he misses his old sour dough starter. This is just plain French bread, but it’s homemade at least.

The question really is this: can Crowley live with being sexual while Aziraphale stubbornly isn’t? Aziraphale seems very interested in _him_, sucking on his neck, groping him, and grinding into him. Maybe he just wanted to make Crowley feel good, and not partake himself? Crowley’s known some stone-butch types throughout the years, but he never would’ve pegged Aziraphale as the type.

Crowley’s been very interested in pushing back at Aziraphale’s tendency to smother him in adoration and kindness, the repeated _I forgive you_’s. He’d like to pin Aziraphale to the wall with his mouth and make him eat those words. He wants to eat up the angel’s face with his eyes as he wrecks him with nothing but his hands, the pleasure reflected in his face entirely _his_ work, _his_ doing, and not just indirectly so like when he pays for the tab. It’s a little devastating to realize that he may not ever get the chance. Maybe if he had concrete proof that this was what was going on, he could figure out a way to get used to it. But it just… doesn’t feel right, and it’s so _fucking_ frustrating because if he could just figure it out, then… then…

He still hasn’t changed from the stupid pirate shirt and tight pants, he’d just tossed off the belt in a huff when he’d gotten home, and he’s still jangling with arousal, faint now, but still there. _Frustrating_, he gripes, rucking a hand through his hair.

He limps a little to his bathroom, feet aching from where he’s kicked various things throughout the night. He pushes himself into a cold shower, but he warms it up nearly immediately because icing his arousal isn’t really going to help at this point.

_Okay_, he sighs, _let’s try it._

He pushes his head into the hot spray and focuses on this: Aziraphale cool and unaffected, kissing him hungrily, undressing him, brushing off his advances like he’s unworthy. _No, that’s not going to work_, he grumbles, pushing wet hair out of his face with his unoccupied hand.

Maybe… Aziraphale smiling, enjoying him with his eyes as he stands there naked and hard? _Guh, no, this just feels weird_.

He makes a handful of attempts, considering the idea from a number of angles. Aziraphale naked but blank, hands curious on Crowley’s obvious arousal: “I just find it distracting,” he smiles, saintly, up at Crowley as his hand does what Crowley’s is currently doing. “I don’t judge you for it, it seems, hm, _diverting_,” he’d grin naughtily.

“_Fuck_,” Crowley snarls, kicking the wall and growling. He can’t do this.

It can sometimes take Crowley a while to get off, so he’s not entirely unfamiliar with this aching, tense frustration that could blend into fear and anxiety; the _oh god, I can’t get off fuck _which would inevitably blossom into a terrible, heaving panic attack and zero relief. He doesn’t want to end up there, so he cards his hand through his wet hair considering the myriad of fantasies at his disposal. He lands randomly on a wedding that the two of them had attended sometime in the last century.

Their bosses had suddenly jerked awake, or something, and demanded they both turn in fifty or so temptations and miracles, respectively, by the end of two weeks. Time was different where their bosses were, so maybe they were unaware of the magnitude of the task they were asking for. Luckily, Aziraphale and Crowley had been invited to a wedding and reception by a mutual friend, and they’d been waffling on attending. With these sudden demands pressing on them, they’d both grinned and joked, “Lots can happen at a wedding.”

The bride had demanded that no one wear black, no dark colors, positively _glowering_ at Crowley who’d just smirked and looked a little full of himself at the attention. He’d considered wearing a blood red tux just to piss her off, but he did like her, so he showed up in a light gray suit, a relic from the regency era, updated with a more modern sack coat. Aziraphale had dressed in beige slacks with his tan waistcoat and a dramatic khaki morning coat. It was almost his normal look, just tuned up a little, and Crowley had shielded his already glass-covered eyes because Aziraphale shown like a star when he saw him. He’d effusively complimented the demon all throughout the ceremony proper, until Crowley had tempted the ringbearer to come bother the angel after the whole ring bearing business was done, asking after his pinky ring and then fawning over magic tricks so that Crowley could go douse his aroused humiliation in booze.

They’d sat together during the reception that morning, sipping wine and idly tempting and miracling people hither and fro. It was a balmy day, sometime mid-July, and Aziraphale had eventually loosened his bowtie and shrugged off his coat, rolling up his sleeves.

Crowley was surely going to die, right here, right now, overheating and shivering with tremulous anxiety and lust, rabidly ogling the constellation of freckles and dusting of fair hairs along his arms. Then, Aziraphale had turned and smiled at him, not a polite smile, not an ‘oh-this-is-a-boring-party’ smile, but a smile that clearly said, “I love you, and I love being here with you, and oh my, you look simply ravishing today.” He had the audacity to smile _that_ smile at him, undressed _like that_, and Crowley had to get up and leave because he couldn’t take it anymore.

In the actual event, Aziraphale had let him go, figuring he’d spotted someone to tempt or miracle near the bathrooms, and sipped his drink, tempting the best man to confess his love to his best mate (not the groom). It would cause a scene, but it would end out well, because the mate felt the same. He brushed a miracle off his knuckles, letting the two men embrace, desperately happy and in love in spite of the rather conservative crowd. _Love is love, and this is the perfect occasion to celebrate it_.

In the fantasy, Aziraphale does not let the demon off quite so easily. Aziraphale had given him that knowing look, _he knew_, just as well as Crowley knew. They both had been appreciating each other in their suits that day. Aziraphale steps into the quiet corridor after the demon, watching a couple titter past, and flashes Crowley a lecherous grin which makes the demon’s insides liquify.

He steps into Crowley’s space, grabs him by the back of his head and bruises him with a kiss as he thrusts him into the wall. Here, there’s something very clearly pushing against Crowley’s hip, and he groans helplessly as Aziraphale palms his erection.

“You think I didn’t notice you staring?” Aziraphale growls, pale blue eyes on his quivering lips as he miracles his belt undone and zipper down, grabbing him roughly. The angel’s eyes possessively eat up his face as Crowley pants and hisses at his ministrations, helpless to stop him, hands worrying at the wall to keep himself upright. Aziraphale kisses him hard, grinding into him ferociously as his hand shifts around him. Crowley needs to be quiet, there’s a room full of people who could very easily stumble on them, Aziraphale’s hand roughly tugging at him, mouth sucking bruises down his jugular.

Crowley’s panting, only held up by the angel’s body pinning him against the wall as his knees have given out and he’s keening quietly into the angel’s kiss. He can actually fill in the details there, correctly for once, and it’s going to send him over the edge.

“Gonnacum,” Crowley whimpers into his angel’s mouth, eyes crimped shut, and shuddering already. Aziraphale cants his head down, watching the jerks of Crowley’s hips as he continues his motions.

“Then come,” he growls, voice dark and eyes hot, and Crowley spills, biting down on Aziraphale’s shoulder to mask the shout as Aziraphale’s hand continues its work mercilessly, palm rocking over the head of his now intensely sensitive cock.

He shivers, finally, coming back to reality as he relaxes in the corner of his shower, watching the lukewarm water spatter the concrete and swirl down the drain. He leans his head back and takes a deep breath. _What have we gotten ourselves into, angel?_ Crowley wonders, looking up, as if the answer were up there, as if _someone_ would answer his prayers.

* * *

Crowley sleeps for a few days after that, and wakes up to his phone ringing incessantly mid-day. He drags himself out of bed and into his living room, where his sound system quietly plays a little Korsakov to help ease him into awareness of the day.

“’Lo,” Crowley mumbles, rubbing his bleary face.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls, worriedly.

“’S me, don’t wear it out,” he chuckles a little drowsily.

After a moment, Aziraphale laughs a little sadly in response to the mangled joke. “How’re you feeling, dear?”

“Mmm,” Crowley leans his back against his counter, shoving glasses onto his face because it’s too bright in his kitchen. “Like I just woke up?”

Aziraphale chuckles, “I’m sorry dear, I just got a little worried not hearing from you. You can go back to bed.”

“Eh,” Crowley shrugs. “What day is it?”

“December 8th,” Aziraphale taps at something on his desk. “Wednesday,” he adds. Crowley barely doesn’t ask him to clarify the time, rubbing his eyes and blinking at his microwave.

“S’pose we should go out or som’thing,” he slurs.

“If you’d like,” Aziraphale nods. “It doesn’t have to be today, dear.”

“Mmm,” Crowley coughs a little. “Maybe tomorrow so I can wake up a little.”

Aziraphale chuckles at that, “Just give me a call and let me know when you’re stopping by.”

“Sure, angel.”

* * *

Crowley dozes on his couch a little after that, but eventually gets up sometime after the sun sets. He rides around London, looking for errant office space. He squints at “For Sale” signs and quietly lets himself into the spaces, looking for something he could live with, or work with at least.

Quite a few of them are just glorified closets, something you could _maybe_ slot a desk and a lamp into. One ends up being a spot that has enough space, but they have the audacity to make you rent a desk. He startles a person programming or something in the dim light of the early morning and rushes off at that, ending up driving mindlessly for a bit. It’s not entirely a surprise that he ends up near Aziraphale’s shop, although it’s something like four in the morning, not really a great time to visit. Not that the angel’s not awake, just… there’s something to be said for maintaining one’s routines. He’s learnt from stopping in on the angel once or twice in the middle of the night that he got a little finicky about having said routines interrupted. He allots large slabs of time for Crowley, sure, but they were all during the afternoon or evening.

He curls around the block, actually looking at the shops that Aziraphale shares block space with. He’s been vaguely aware of them, as one is aware of the background noise of a neighbor listening to a game on the stereo, or a car alarm in the distance. They change too often for him to really focus in and detail them, really. 

He slows and parks, considering a bakery that he doesn’t quite remember being there before. There’s a sign in the window, illuminated as people rush about baking the loaves they’ll sell throughout the day, that states: “Office Space For Rent.” 

Crowley saunters out of the Bentley and decides to investigate. It’s down a small alleyway which connects to the block-length alleyway which abuts on Aziraphale’s shop. _Interesting_.

He lets himself in the door that looks like it could be a fire-exit. It’s locked, but that hasn’t stopped him at any of the other places he’s visited tonight. It smells a little musty, and he eyes the long, high, grubby window that’s almost exactly what he’d been picturing for his shop.

The ‘office’ itself is perhaps as large as his kitchen and about half of his living room, combined. There’s some crumbling particle board hastily propped up to simulate terrible, depressing cubicles made up of cheap fold-out tables and miscellaneous chairs. There’s odd computer wires tugged around the tables, and one of the ‘desks’ still has two monitors sitting out, dipping the plastic of the table down with their weight.

He tugs out the cheap tri-wheeled chair by that desk, unloading a puff of dust. He brushes a few cobwebs off of a square of something behind one of the monitors, and pulls it out. With a little more dusting, he realizes it’s a photograph, the sort one plunks on their desk to keep themselves sane at a place like this. There’s a small, worn spot on the bottom where the person who’d owned this frame has repeatedly thumbed it. The picture within the frame is of an Indian man in a jersey, smiling jauntily with a soccer ball at his knee, and a chubby toddler in his lap wearing a tinier version of the jersey he’s wearing. It makes Crowley smile a little lumpily, and he pushes the frame into his jacket. He shouldn’t be able to locate the owner of the photo with so few clues, but he _is_ a demon after all. He’ll wrap it up and send it over the post sometime later.

He considers the electrical wiring. The lighting that’s currently in place is pretty terrible, just two small cone lights which do hardly anything to light up the place. He can fix that he notes, as he follows the wires back and around the ceiling and walls. There’s plenty of places to put in some supportive beams for his shelves of plants, and the electrical is set up fairly well despite the current dimness. He could certainly string up a few sun lamps and a larger, decorative piece that would light up the full shop. 

He pokes around the back, and squints a little. He’s starting to get the idea that this place used to be a posh restaurant of some sort that got divvyed up, this back portion previously being an area for more tables. He considers the small area split off for the storage closet, restroom, and kitchen. The restroom is ungendered, housing two stalls and another dim cone light. He disturbs a nest of rats in the storage room who bare their sharp yellow teeth at his intrusion. He sneers a hiss in response and they skitter off down a dark hole in the corner.

The storage room is too small to be a good inventory room, but he can change that, muscle it a little larger with a few miracles. The kitchen doesn’t need to be as big as it is, after all. He’s not going to hire anyone to help him, and he really only needs a coffee machine and a fridge, maybe. He walks around the office space a few times, marking its length and width and considering. It’s bigger than his current plant room, so it’s already an improvement. With a little work, it’ll be great.

On his fifth cycle around the perimeter, he finds the thing that’s bothering him, niggling but difficult to put a finger on. There’s a bricked over doorway a few spaces past the hallway that leads to the miscellaneous other rooms. It’s secure; it would take a sledgehammer and a lot of time to recreate a doorway here. But the _idea_, the _concept_, of a door is here, and that intrigues him. He’s been thinking, maybe, of putting in something that would link up with his home, and a doorway like this would work for that perfectly. He could make it so that it would only open for him, perhaps Aziraphale too, and everyone else would either see the true wall, or a locked passage.

It makes him curious though, so he pops through the wall. He should figure out _why_ they bricked it off, just in case. He sidles into _unseen _and tiptoes around a dark corridor with a set of stairs. There’s an emergency exit at one end of the hall, and at the other, a door pushed open with warm light and yeasty smells pouring out. He begins hopping up the stairs when a woman pummels into him from behind. He pants, pressing himself against the wall, terrified that he’s about to be stabbed by a fiery sword or something, but he just finds himself face-to-face with a short woman with her hair pulled up in a crushingly tight, slicked ponytail looking flushed from the heat of the bakery.

No human should be able to see through his little invisibility charm… unless, _hm_, he quirks his head at her curiously. Unless she was someone who needed him, his special brand of _other_. Aziraphale might be the patron saint, principality, _whatever_ of queers, but Crowley has accidentally stepped into the role of hmm, _whatever_ of gender. It’s been a while since someone’s needed him, honestly. That’s probably more related to his becoming an exhausted shut-in than a sudden dearth of people with gender problems, though.

He digs in his jacket and pulls out a business card and offers it to her, shrugging a little. “Call me,” his smile is soft, welcoming, “You’re not alone?” He’s never really sure what to say, but somehow that communicates well enough. She plucks the card from his fingers, stuffs it in a pocket, and suddenly he’s invisible again.

After a moment, he follows her upstairs. It’s a small office space studded with file cabinets; walls lined with storage boxes in various states of disorder. It’s nothing he wants or needs, so he dances back downstairs and lets himself back into the office space. _Yes, this will do_, he nods, and begins laying down a few small protections.

* * *

Aziraphale’s been doing a little work in the intervening time as well. Crowley doesn’t call him the next day, so he figures he must’ve gone back to sleep or something. He’ll call him on Friday and demand they go out, or well, gently wheedle at the very least.

The mold in the corner is completely gone, and he’s remodeled a little. There’s a protective inner wall and another set of doors between the outside and the inside of the bookstore, lined with seating and magazines, as if his store were a doctor’s office or something. It’s truly a space where he can lay down the big protective guns, and also force a choke point should anyone attempt to storm him. It makes the place seem a little more exclusive, and perhaps, keeps sticky-fingered patrons from smudging century-old texts.

He's reorganized the stacks as well, finally acceding to his fellow bookseller’s and customer’s demands that he cordon off some of his more prized possessions as a library or gallery. Yes, yes, it’s true, if he has no plans to sell them, they shouldn’t be on the shelves, but he just hasn’t wanted to bother with sub-dividing things before. The front corner of the bookstore so recently infested with mold is now a gallery with various state-of-the-art displays and protections, picked up from visiting museums with Crowley throughout the years. He’s pushed the till over by the window, near where Crowley had sat that night while waiting for the Chinese take out to arrive. He’s put in more shelves, and a spiral staircase up to his second floor, even set aside an area for queer literature. On a whim, he’s dressed the rubber plant up like a little Christmas tree, too, and set it by the till. It seems quite happy with the role, preening with silver and red garlands draped over it.

He’s shut off the back, finally. He’d had a violent daydream about someone coming in while he and Crowley were in, hm, a _compromised position_ on his couch, and he simply couldn’t live with that. He’s put in a wall, lined with shelves stuffed with books from the second floor down. A set of double doors, and a few small, crystalline windows interrupt the shelves on the bottom floor, one with a hinge so that he could potentially entertain someone from the back of the shop through it, if need be.

He’s expanded his kitchenette into a proper kitchen too, as he’s considering finally taking a stab at cooking. He’s tried before, but… he’s just never been very good at it. The spare bedroom, prior loo, had to be disappeared to make room for the countertop and range. It’s lovely and rustic, stained wooden slabs and shining cookware. He’d magicked in a lot of the rough edges and then feathered it with purchases, enjoying the fact that this tea towel didn’t quite match the others, or that his wok is just a little long to hang from the pot rack.

He may be trying to divert himself from the fact that he’s found something interesting. He doesn’t really want to involve Crowley with it because the whole reason he’s even looking into this is _because_ of Crowley. It would be a bit awkward to make Crowley prowl in and play knight-in-shining-armor when Aziraphale was attempting to apportion out justice for something done _to_ Crowley. It’s all rather convoluted, and he just needs to get the demon out to lunch or dinner again so that he can be sure he won’t pop in on him unannounced.

He’s not sure that he wants Crowley to see that part of him, but he can’t really tell when the demon will show up, so he’s… frittering. Trying not to think about the print-out hidden in a spelled drawer with a certain angelic agent on it, listing their assignments, and most interestingly, _their employers_.

The renovations have brought in more customers, and it’s probably for the best. They keep Aziraphale from his daydreams of violence, after all, though most are creeped out by the malice tucked behind his smiles. He’s making note of it for future use scaring off customers, of course.

* * *

The phone rings out for the fifth time, and Crowley’s starting to get a little concerned. He’d forgotten to call Aziraphale yesterday, getting wrapped up in licensing and land-zoning before he could even begin doing much moving into the new place. It’d drained him, and he’d only kept himself from not sleeping for a couple of days by setting up twenty or so alarms throughout his flat.

Aziraphale answers the phone roughly after the sixth ring, “H’lo? Ah!” Crowley stares very pointedly at his granite countertop as he listens to Aziraphale fall down and things clatter down around him.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, voice surprisingly calm considering his concern, wondering whether he needs to poof over there or not.

“Crowley! Ah, good,” he’s huffing a little, phone somehow awkward against his cheek or neck because his voice sounds distant and muffled.

“Everything all right?”

“Uh, oh, oh yes, I just, I just did a little renovation, and uh, misplaced the phone,” he puffs, apparently righting himself as his voice is no longer as odd sounding.

“Oh?” Crowley quirks his head, surprised. “Thought you were gonna leave it the same as it was forever as some sort of ‘fuck you’ to time, angel,” he chuckles.

“Crowley,” he grumbles, “Please, I’m not…” He puffs as he pushes himself up off the ground. “I’m not as stuck in the past as you may think I am.”

“Oh?” Crowley smirks a little, amused. “So, you picked up a cell phone, got free wifi, and you’re serving lattes now?”

Aziraphale groans, and he hears the squeak of his chair as he flumps into it. “You’re terrible, dear.”

“Mmm,” Crowley chuckles, “Comes with the territory.” He takes a deep breath, “So, got tangled up yesterday. How about the Ritz?”

“Oh, of course, that sounds splendid. It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah, you keep better track of it than I do,” Crowley shakes his head. “I’ll be by in the afternoon. Is—Are the renovations done?” He finds that he’s a little hurt that the shop may have been changed without him, but he knows there’s no grounds for such a feeling. It’s been a home to him as much as his flat has, and for longer, but still, it’s not technically _his_. Aziraphale has poked and prodded at the shop throughout the years, but not enough that he’d call it ‘renovations.’

“Uhm,” Aziraphale gestures, but Crowley can’t see him, so it doesn’t help. “I mean yes, they’re mostly miracled, so it’s not like there’s plaster or paint drying anywhere. It’s, uh, the back is still mostly the same, I was mostly focusing on the front.”

“Ah,” Crowley nods a little at that. He could probably live with that. “Guess I’ll stop by around three or four so you can show me around.”

“Good! I’ll see you then, dear.”

* * *

Crowley parks a block away so that he can take a look without alerting the angel. He’s feeling strangely tremulous about this, twitchy and shivery. He tries to ease himself into it, ambling by across the street as if he was not interested in the shop at all. It doesn’t work. He turns and his jaw drops as he takes it in. The entrance has been redone, the second floor beefed up a little, and the windows changed and opaque, well, besides those around the entrance. He leans hard against the brickwork across the street, and feels… lost, torn asunder. The shop’s not burning, but some part of him is screaming that if he walks in there, _Aziraphale won’t be in there_.

He gulps for air, lungs and eyes burning, and it’s like a nightmare realized. That one day he’d just walk up, and the shop would be gone, somehow replaced in the night, with no sign pointing him towards his lost angel.

He should walk across the street and let himself in. It should be that easy. He can _sense_ Aziraphale in there, his magicks swirled around it, built even more into the foundations than they had been before.

After a few more tense moments and a dog that wags worriedly at him, nearly pulling a human to worry at him, he puffs his trench coat up around his shoulders and stalks back to the Bentley. It soothes him with Queen, though he glowers a little as it’s chosen _Love of My Life_.

“It’s fine,” he snaps. The Bentley doesn’t respond, just turns up the volume a little on Freddie crooning, “_Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me, because you don’t know… what it means to me…_”

He leans his head against the steering wheel and sniffles. “’S fine, ‘is shop, ‘m bein’ dumb.” He rubs his face with the back of his hand, and finally gives in and tugs out a handkerchief from somewhere in his coat. He blows his nose with a loud honk, and checks his appearance in the mirror. He kind of wishes he had foundation or something; he’s a little spotty from the crying.

“Bleh,” he sticks out his tongue at his reflection, and starts the Bentley, curving around the block so that he can park across the street.

He bounds across the street, causing a car to honk at him even though he’d given them fair warning he was crossing. He flips them off, and uses the jittery energy generated there to push himself through the new, heavy doors. His chest freezes as he steps in and sees the squat leather squares of seating out front. He breathes in, carefully, and it still smells like the shop at least. And not the shop-on-fire-shop. He pauses and looks back at the door suddenly. _No bell?_

He quietly steps forward, considering the painted schedule Aziraphale’s written up, clearly done by his own hand. He’s apparently going for something like sixties or seventies office vibe, at least in this little front room. He very delicately pushes open the door with the schedule on it, and ah, _there’s_ the bell. Aziraphale’s currently talking animatedly with a young woman with a honey-colored natural, pointing out shelves and grinning. He hasn’t noticed Crowley, so he delicately slinks an “unseen” cloak around his shoulders and tip-toes into the stacks.

The shelving still makes _no sense_, he smirks, idly reshelving things as he walks down one aisle and up another. The gallery spooks him a little, a giant safe-style door in bright white, propped open. He peers in, and notes that it’s apparently temperature-controlled, and has a number of glass-cases with books propped open within them, lighting properly dim to retain the inks. Most of these books are holy, the only ones left in any fit shape in the world. Nothing that Crowley has ever really needed, or wanted, to peruse.

He’s beginning to feel a little more relaxed. One nice thing is that there’s far more shelves, so he can skulk around much easier without the angel noticing him. It’s becoming a bit of a game for him as he pokes his head out from behind shelves, ensuring Aziraphale’s talking to someone before he jumps over to the next aisle.

He sees the queer and women’s lit section and positively beams. They’re a little too close to the register for Crowley to review and ensure that Aziraphale’s picked the good ones, but he can always check later. There’s time.

He shimmies up to the second floor, startling a red-head considering a big book of astronomy. He gently talks it up and sends the lad on his way, and peers down from the second floor.

“_Ghostbusters_, that was it,” he snaps a little to himself. He plucks the tall book he’d found the Carina nebula in off of the shelf and slides down the banister. _Perhaps a spiral staircase is a little more fun than a pole_, he decides.

He quietly sidles into the line behind a few other people, and notices Aziraphale getting distracted and frowning at the front door. Crowley checks his watch, and shrugs off a few shivers of anxiety. It’s coming up on four, which is one of Aziraphale’s closing times, _sometimes_, and also around the time Crowley would usually pull up.

Aziraphale rings up the customers, to Crowley’s surprise. Well, he’s cordoned off the books he’s _not_ selling, so perhaps it’s easier for customers to pick things he’ll actually, willingly, sell.

Crowley quirks his head at the angel, forgetting he has an _unseen_ charm on himself, and Aziraphale hasn’t noticed him. The angel has his hand rested on his palm, staring at the front door with an adorable perplexed look on his face. Crowley waves the charm off, and clears his throat, startling Aziraphale greatly.

“Excuse me,” he grins, “I think there’s a problem with this book.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, hiding a start and chuckling quietly. “Oh?” he holds out a hand to take it.

“Oh yes, infested with snakes, I’m afraid,” Crowley pops open the book, shooting colorful, crinkling paper snakes at the angel.

“Oh, oh dear,” Aziraphale laughs, putting up a hand to protect himself from the papery projectiles. “I’m terribly sorry, my dear. How _ever_ can I make it up to you?” he gives Crowley a sultry grin, leaning his chin on the back of his hand and Crowley gulps audibly.

“Uhm,” he coughs. “D-dinner?”

“Oh? Is that all?” he lowers his voice in an alluring whisper, eyes dancing with mirth, and Crowley has to look away, turning brilliantly red.

* * *

Dinner at the Ritz is wonderful, as it always is. It’s also a nice stability and familiarity after the strangeness of the changed shop. He’ll get used to it, of course, but it’s still a bit of a startling development to have sprung on him.

Aziraphale links arms with him as they leave, making Crowley blush even more. He’s been quiet most of the evening, turning various shades of crimson as Aziraphale flirts unabashedly with him. “Why don’t we stop by your place tonight, hm?” he rests his other hand on Crowley’s forearm, and Crowley feels like he should be floating, walking on air, he’s so happy.

“Sure, angel, whatever you like,” he smiles down at him. He’s picked boots with thick wedge-heels today, giving him a few extra inches over the angel.

“You still have a few of my books, I think,” Aziraphale gently taps his free hand on Crowley’s arm.

“Oh, right,” Crowley shifts a little in irritation at himself. “I keep forgetting.”

“Well, I can pick them up tonight,” he smiles, patting Crowley’s arm.

“Sure,” Crowley gives him a slightly tight smile.

Crowley’s a little stiff on the drive home, muscle memory reminding him that the last time he’d taken Aziraphale to his home, he’d proceeded to be unwell. Aziraphale gently lets his arm go as they reach the flat, perhaps aware of the sense-memory of leaning so hard on him last time.

Crowley waves his hand a few times as he enters, clearing his muss of discarded clothes and cracked pots. He hadn’t been expecting Aziraphale to come by tonight, obviously.

“Ah, here,” he picks up an old jacket, carelessly tossed on top of the stack of books on his table near the front door. “Sorry, it—” he stutters, and stops. The old jacket was supposed to be a flag for him to see the stack and take it, but it’s hard for him to articulate that right now as it just seems utterly idiotic upon closer inspection.

“I’ll pick them up when I leave, don’t worry, dear,” Aziraphale gentles a hand on his arm to redirect him. Aziraphale plucks off his mittens and great coat, hanging them up on the black, spiky hooks on the wall near the front door. Crowley’s thought of them more as weapons, something to hang an enemy on, rather than coat hooks. He’s never really used them as such.

“You’re uh,” he stops himself from asking, _you’re staying, then?_ “D’ya want uhm,” he gestures at his kitchen. “Uh, oh, your uh, groceries went bad,” he rubs his face, feeling sweat spike out on his face. _Smooth as ever_.

“It has been a few weeks,” Aziraphale shrugs, taking off his overcoat as well, and Crowley pauses, considering the angel in his waistcoat. “Let’s have something to drink, hm? The champagne was good, but I know you’ve got some good bourbon in there,” he gestures at the silver fridge.

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale huffs suddenly. “Dear, you should probably take off your coat.”

“O-oh,” Crowley looks down at himself. “Right,” he grins, feeling sheepish. He tugs off the trench coat and walks to his bedroom, tucking it in the closet, leaving him in a black sweater with a steel-gray collar poking out from under it, and sleek, pinstriped slacks.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” Aziraphale states, considering the demon as he galivants back into the kitchen in silvery socks, plucking down two low, fat glasses from a cupboard. He shrugs a little, not quite meeting the angel’s eyes. He still hasn’t taken the glasses off, but they’re an older pair: small, oval lenses which barely cover his eyes. “Anything on your mind?”

Crowley rolls his shoulders a little as he drops whiskey stones into both glasses and pours out two-fingers for each of them. “Oh, I suppose—did you want an old fashioned?” Crowley looks up, a little guilty. They don’t usually do mixed drinks, but Aziraphale will occasionally. Aziraphale shakes his head dismissively and waves his hand, calling the glass across the countertop.

“I would’ve said as such,” Aziraphale tells him with a smirk, eyebrow quirked as he takes a sip.

“Ah, yes,” Crowley nods. “I guess,” he takes a sip of his bourbon, and sighs in pleasure, leaning back against his dishwasher. “Mmm, I guess I was just a little startled by the shop.”

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale nods. “I’m sorry dear, I suppose I should have consulted you.”

Crowley shakes his head derisively, waving a hand. “’S your shop, angel. Like I have any say in it,” he takes another sip of his drink, shaking his head still.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs. “Do you not like it?” he tilts his head, staring down at his glass with a worried expression on his face.

“No, it’s—” Crowley starts forward, hands outstretched as if to stop the angel from jumping to conclusions. “I’ll get used to it. Though… you’re gonna have to do something about the customers,” he smirks at him.

“Yes, I’ve realized that,” Aziraphale huffs into his glass. “I may have to reduce hours even more,” he grins up at Crowley.

“Poor thing,” Crowley croons, leaning towards him against the countertop. They stare at each other, and Crowley’s considering walking around to Aziraphale’s side so they can stop making eyes at each other and just _kiss_ already. Aziraphale sets his glass down with a loud clink and takes a deep inhale, and that stops him from following through with that particular thought.

“I suppose we should talk.” Aziraphale releases his breath evenly.

Crowley holds his gaze, and finally gives up on the tiny frames. He plucks them off and sets them on the counter, his fingers drumming besides them. “We are talking,” he states evenly, feeling tense and needled. Something about having Aziraphale in his flat makes him feel on-edge, like he can’t let his guard down for some reason.

Aziraphale raises a sardonic eyebrow at him, holding his gaze with a smirk playing on his lips. After a moment he darts his eyes away, considering the new speakers peeking out of the walls in various places.

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale finally starts as Crowley continues tapping out a steady rhythm on the countertop. “Maybe… we could try couples’ therapy?” he manages not to squeak it out, sounding almost even and reasonable, but he winces terribly as he finishes. Crowley’s drumming stops, suddenly, and it’s very quiet without the noise.

Crowley’s eyes lock onto his face, cool and hard, and Aziraphale stammers, continuing, “There’s, you know, uhm, there’s therapists, in Limbo? Have you, uhm…”

“I’m aware,” Crowley growls, returning to his idle drumming on the countertop. “What’s brought this on, angel?” his voice is cool, unaffected. He feels a little like he’s watching this all play out without his control, as if he’s sitting back and watching a set on television. _Yo, stop being a prick!_, he wants to catcall, pelting popcorn at the screen.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around. “Uhm, well,” he runs his hand through his springy curls, causing them to stick up. Crowley’s eyes soften a little at that. “Well, whenever we… uhm… get into it, you, uh, hmm,” he purses his lips, looking anywhere but at the demon.

Crowley grumbles, shifting forward on the counter and tugging a chair over with his foot to sink into. “Get scared, is that what you’re going to say?” he sighs, idly toying with his whisky stones, swirling them in the glass.

“Uhm, yes,” Aziraphale gives him a quick, sharp nod. “And, uh, you don’t—you can say the word whenever, like, even—even now!” he laughs a little nervously.

Crowley looks up at him, and smirks. “This isn’t going to come out right,” Crowley sighs, reaching back and undoing the hair claw he’d tucked his hair into earlier. Aziraphale gives him a worried look as he delicately sets it next to his glasses. “Uhm, when we kiss,” he motions at the table, staring at the angel’s reflection glistening in the black granite, “You uhm.” He sighs heavily. “You’re… do you enjoy it?” he asks, looking up at the angel, worriedly.

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Yes?” he nods, giving him an _isn’t it obvious?_ look.

Crowley sighs. “Okay, I uh, I enjoy it too, uhm,” he runs his hand back through his hair, ducking his head, and wishing he could make himself disappear. “If, uh, and,” he exhales again. _Don’t get ahead of yourself_. “You’re not making the effort?” he jumbles it out quickly, wincing.

“What?” Aziraphale frowns at him, confused.

“I, uh, I mean, I can… get used to it, I just… I’d like to know…” he gestures a little, staring at the angel’s perplexed expression through the reflective countertop.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, and Crowley jerks his head up, panic spiking at him.

“Uh,” he sputters. “You’re, for _god’s sake_, Aziraphale, you’re not hard, okay?” he growls, smushing his reddening face with his hands. He watches the angel worriedly between his thin fingers after a moment.

Aziraphale tilts his head, and exhales sharply through his nose, not meeting his eyes. Then he bites his lip, frowning a little. _Oh no, I fucked up_, Crowley gulps.

“It’s—” “Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is clear and decisive, brooking no argument. “Did it ever occur to you, that, perhaps, I might have gone with something else?”

Crowley blinks at him, uncomprehending. Aziraphale gestures, pulling the bottle of bourbon to himself, and pours himself another, and takes a deep drink before continuing. He draws his tired eyes up to the demon after a moment, “What makes you think I’d have a prick, anyway?”

“Uhm,” Crowley’s stomach drops out of him, panic twinging rabidly up his spine as he realizes just what he’s missed. “Oh no,” he whispers. “Oh no, I’m sorry,” he covers his mouth, looking horrified. “I’m sooo sorry, you, you had one, back in Rome, I just…” the color drains out of his face, and he wants to curl up and _die_. “I just assumed,” he squeaks, sinking to the countertop with his hands dug into his hair.

Aziraphale sighs, and waves his hand at him a little as if he’s clearing the air. “I may not be _hard_ in the sense that you are, but well, you have certainly left me, what do they call it? Blue?” he ticks a finger on his chin, smirking, and Crowley barks a laugh.

“Ugh, I’m sorry angel,” Crowley toys with the condensation left by his glass on the countertop. “I should’ve thought, or asked, or…” he sighs.

“So, it wasn’t that I was doing something wrong,” Aziraphale sighs, smiling. “Phew,” he giggles a little.

“Yeah, phew,” Crowley grins up a little loopily at him.

“I, uh, I do think,” Aziraphale starts after a moment of them staring at each other. His eyes dart around again, and he licks his lips a little unconsciously. “I think it’s a good idea, though, maybe… uhm, maybe we should get tested.”

Crowley quirks his head, and he squints at the angel. “Tested?”

“Yes, I… you know, in Limbo, they have this hospital set up?” he sidles forward on his stool a little, excited to share information.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware, I’ve actually been there a couple of times,” he huffs. “Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

Aziraphale starts at that, and shakes his head, “No, uhm… what do you mean?”

Crowley gets up from his chair and digs around in a few drawers, and finally pulls out a postcard. “You stop by Limbo once, and they’re sending you reminders _constantly_,” he tosses the postcard towards Aziraphale. There’s a woman with small, fluffy, three-headed puppy jumping at her, and the text, “It’s time for a checkup!” written in swirly font above it. He flips it over, considering the “Special Reminder for: Anthony J. Crowley” advisement at the top and the blocks of text inciting him to revisit.

“You last visited in 1957?” Aziraphale reads out.

“Yeah,” Crowley grumbles, gesturing to take the card back. “Nuclear radiation poisoning,” he shrugs when Aziraphale refuses to hand it back.

“_What?_” Aziraphale gawps.

Crowley shrugs again in response, “Humans were nowhere near being able to cure it, you were halfway across the world and couldn’t do anything even if you’d wanted to, so.” He leans over the counter to pluck the card from his hand forcefully, stuffing it back in the drawer.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, digesting this new information.

“So, just know what you’re getting into,” he sidles back into his seat and takes another sip of his bourbon, finishing it. He pulls the bottle over, crawling a little over the table, and pours himself some more.

“What sort of testing, anyway?” Crowley asks, squinting at the angel.

“Uhh,” Aziraphale pauses, startled out of his train of thought. “Uhm, I… well, I want to make sure we… we won’t hurt each other,” he gives Crowley a weak, sheepish smile.

Crowley blinks at him, eyebrow cocked. “You’re worried we’ll what? Y-your…” he struggles with words for a moment, “your… stuff will, what, do what holy water didn’t?”

Aziraphale pinks terribly and takes a deep swig of bourbon, coughing. “No, I… well…” Aziraphale shrugs helplessly, hiccupping. Finally, he meets Crowley’s smirking gaze. “I’m worried we’re turning human,” he squeaks.

“Ah,” Crowley intones, disbelieving smile playing at his lips. Crowley takes another sip of bourbon, and chuckles into his glass a little. “I don’t think humans have wings, Aziraphale.”

“I-I know that,” Aziraphale huffs, blushing deeper.

“I can still sense your holy aura, angel, I don’t think you’re at any risk.”

“Look! I just think it’d be a good idea. To be safe,” he bites out, looking incredibly flustered.

Crowley watches him with a furrowed brow, sipping his bourbon. “Is this about the hellfire?”

“And the holy water,” Aziraphale’s lips twist around grumpily.

“Fair enough,” Crowley nods. “I doubt they’ll know anything, though,” he shrugs. “Whenever I asked ‘hey, is this normal?’ they just told me that we’re all occult creatures and we’re all kind of… different. Unique.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale nods a little, slumping in his chair as well. They’d drunk a lot before this, and they’re both getting a little dozy at this point.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley huffs again, rubbing his face. “I’m a fool,” he huffs, rubbing his eyes hard, leaning into it and popping back after a moment.

“We’re all fools in love,” Aziraphale smiles at him.

“Oh please,” Crowley huffs.

There’s a quiet moment, Crowley toying with condensation on his countertop, and Aziraphale mapping out the way his hair is getting long enough to start curling towards ringlets, wondering where and why he’d have a random braid just there?

“Oh, right,” Crowley starts. “Fine, I guess,” he shrugs.

Aziraphale frowns at him, “What?”

Crowley pulls out his phone from a pocket and dials a number, flipping it to speaker and placing it on the table.

“Limbo Headquarters, this is Holly speaking. How many I direct your call?” 

“Can you put me through to appointments, hospital?”

“Of course, sir, give me one moment. Is this an emergency?”

“Nope,” Crowley pops the ‘p’ there a little sharply and shakes his head as if to punctuate it further.

“One moment, I’m going to put you on hold.” There’s a soft click and pleasant music filters through his phone speaker, just a tiny bit distorted. Aziraphale squints at him.

“What? You said you wanted to—” The phone clicks between them, and a chipper male voice interrupts them, “Limbo Hospital, Thierry speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Thierry,” Crowley smirks a little at Aziraphale. “Can I make an appointment with you, or is there another loop to go through?”

“Ah, sure, I can do that for you, one second.” There’s some tapping on the other line, and Aziraphale giggles a little behind his hand. “Is this Anthony Crowley I’m speaking to?”

“Yes,” Crowley idly takes a sip of his remaining slivers of bourbon.

“Can you please confirm your animal form for me, Anthony?”

“Ssserpent,” he hisses a little, chuckling.

“Yes, thank you, sorry, we just have to verify, y’know,” Thierry makes a few more tapping noises idly. “Is there any reason in particular you’re making this appointment, Anthony?”

“Hmm,” Crowley rolls his whiskey stones around his glass idly. “Checkup, I suppose. Do they have STD tests for things like us?”

“Well, there’s something like that,” Thierry’s smile clicks in his cheek, audibly. “Alright, it looks like I have a spot open for next Thursday, the seventeenth, in the afternoon. What time is good for you?”

“Any time after noon, honestly,” he shrugs. Aziraphale raises a finger at this point, trying to get Crowley’s attention. Crowley raises a finger to his lips, shushing him.

“2 pm?” Thierry asks.

“Sure,” Crowley shrugs.

“Alright, we’ll see you next Thursday at 2 then, Anthony. Is there anything else you’d like to take care of?”

“Uhm,” Aziraphale blurts and Crowley palms his face, huffing.

“Anthony?”

“Sorry, uh, gotta go, thanks,” Crowley quickly hangs up the phone, glaring daggers at the angel.

“I, I should make an appointment too?” Aziraphale whimpers a little, upset at being shushed.

“Yes, I know, angel, I,” Crowley sighs heavily. “We probably shouldn’t make both of our appointments on the same call, _hm_?” he hisses, gesturing sharply.

“Oh. Oh! Oh, dear, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale sighs, leaning his head on his hand. Crowley taps the phone again, and tosses it across the table to Aziraphale. “Oh, I, uhm,” he picks it up, confused. Crowley mimes putting it to his ear and talking.

“Ah, uhm, hello?”

“Limbo, Winona speaking. How may I direct your call?” This phone operator is a little more clipped than the previous one.

“Uh, hi, Winona. I—uh, can I make an appointment at the, uh, hospital? Please?” Crowley’s resting his forehead against his palm, taking deep, belabored breaths, embarrassed beyond belief.

“Are you calling about an emergency?” Winona pops gum on the line and Aziraphale gives the phone a disgusted look.

“No, uhm, you know that’s quite rude, dear,” he huffs. Crowley giggles, high, in the background. She apparently ignores his rebuke and clicks him onto the hold music.

“Goodness, they go quite quickly don’t the—” “Limbo Hospital, this is Thierry, how may I direct your call?”

“Uh, oh, hi Thierry,” Aziraphale’s face flips through a number of expressions and Crowley exhales deeply through his nose, sinking his head into both of his hands. “Uh, Crowley was just talking to you, sorry, I uhm. I’d like to make an appointment?”

Thierry pauses for a moment, and he can almost hear the gob smacked look on his face. “This isn’t Anthony Crowley, then?”

“N-no,” Aziraphale offers. “I’m, um, my name is Aziraphale, uhm, Principality of the Eastern Gate? I don’t know if I have an animal form,” he nibbles his finger idly.

“A-alright, just give me a moment to pull this up,” Thierry inhales audibly, and types in the background.

“Uhm,” he coughs a little. “Could you, uh, confirm your name, er, title? When, uhm… in the war?” he sounds deeply uncomfortable with this, thumb audibly tapping on his space bar.

Aziraphale eyes go distant, and he grumbles a little, rubbing his face with his spare hand. Crowley quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head up a fraction, not understanding Aziraphale’s silence. “Hung up?” he mouths, pointing at a mimed phone at his ear, and Aziraphale huffs, shaking his head and waving a hand at the demon.

“Raphael,” Aziraphale replies quietly, holding Crowley’s eyes worriedly. The demon gives him a perplexed look, head cocked curiously.

“Thank you, sorry, uhm,” Thierry laughs a little awkwardly. “We just have to, uh, confirm identities, you know.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale sips at his remaining bourbon.

“May I ask why you’re, uhm, making this appointment? I mean, no, uh, any particular reason you’re—”

“Checkup and testing, whatever it is he’s having done,” he states stiffly, waving a little.

“Ah,” Thierry says softly. “Okay, uh, well, December seventeenth? What time works for you?”

“Do you have something around two?” he smirks a little, audibly tinkling the whiskey stones in his glass.

“Uhm,” Thierry taps at something on his side. “I have a 2:15, actually. Would that work?”

“Sure,” Aziraphale smiles softly.

“Alright, can you just, confirm your address, please? We’ll need to send you a confirmation in the mail,” Thierry anxiously taps something on his side. After a moment, Aziraphale rattles off the shop’s address, twice, so that he can take it all down.

“T-thanks, uhm. Since it’s your first time, uh, well, you should give yourself a little extra time when you come in. Fill out paperwork, and all that.” He barely manages to not comment on the fact that _well, obviously you’ll have time if you’re coming with him_.

“Alright,” Aziraphale nods. “Anything else?”

“No, no, you’re all set up. Look for the card in the mail, we’ll use it to confirm, uhm, when you come in. And, y-you can choose your identity confirmation, when you come in, too,” his voice quavers a little.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale nods.

“Well, see you next Thursday!” Thierry grins a little manically, and the line goes dead.

Aziraphale looks at the phone in his hand. “You can’t really slam these down satisfactorily, can you?”

“No,” Crowley croaks from where his head is very firmly planted in his hands.

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale slides the phone across the countertop to the demon.

“Great,” he says, clipped and clear. Aziraphale huffs in response. “Sorry, just incredibly embarrassed, I’ll get over it,” Crowley scrubs his face with his hands.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale smiles at him, eyes hooded. “You know, I’m in the mood for a nap.”

“Oh?” Crowley looks at him curiously. “S’pose you could stay over if you like,” he shrugs.

“Lead the way, dear,” Aziraphale gestures, and Crowley rolls his shoulders a little, and nearly falls on his face as he trips over the chair he’d been sitting on.

“’m fine!”

“C’mere,” Aziraphale huffs, suddenly at his shoulder, and they lean on each other, weaving towards his bedroom. The red elephant nightlight is still there, and it flicks on as Aziraphale enters. Crowley makes to just dump the angel on the bed and go rustle up a chair, but Aziraphale roughly tugs him onto the bed by tangling his hand in his sweater.

“Pffuh,” Crowley spits hair out of his face, considering their currently tangled limbs. Aziraphale grins up at him irreverently, doziness suddenly evaporated. Crowley rolls off of him after a moment, barely stopping himself from slowly leaning down to kiss him and sighs deeply, considering his ceiling. He wiggles a little, getting comfortable, and Aziraphale turns, pillowing his head on his palm and watching him. Crowley chuckles a little at that, pushing his hair back again.

“Alright. Question.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale’s free hand is walking its way over to the demon almost unconsciously.

“You, uh, you didn’t answer before,” Crowley sniffs and rubs his face with a hand.

“Oh? What was it?” he rubs his own nose, looking adorably perplexed.

“I dunno, maybe you didn’t hear me or something,” Crowley huffs, and shifts himself up into a sitting position. Aziraphale watches him, curiously. “Uhm, so,” he curls his hair around his ear, looking down at his comforter dotted with constellations. “You uh, you ever used a safe word before?”

“Uhm,” Aziraphale tilts his head a little on his palm, mouth quirking around a bit as he thinks. “Yes. Have you?”

Crowley tucks his feet up to him, and waves a little, poofing on pajama pants, disappearing the button-up and bra and replacing the sweater with a heavy black cotton shirt, some band logo laundered into obscurity on the front. “Yeah,” he shrugs a little. “Mostly, well,” he rubs his hands through his hair again. “There was this sailor, this uh, pirate really, and uh,” he smiles a little wistfully. “He was like a puppy dog, I swear, got tattoos of… stuff related to us, and just,” he chuckles at the memory. He’d been sweet, earnest, and terribly homosexual, which had been a little awkward because Crowley had been presenting as female at the time. “We experimented a little, just, seeing if I could stand uh, being tied up,” he gestures a little.

“Oh?” Aziraphale’s head slips off of his hand, and he finally gives up on laying on his side and tugs himself into an upright position like Crowley.

“Yeah, I uh, can’t do chairs,” he chuckles nervously, shaking his head, and staring at his walls bleakly. “I can generally do tying down, but uh, it takes a little… work,” he gestures. “I like it, I just… I can freak out a little, sometimes.”

Aziraphale nods, fingering his lips and considering the demon. “I suppose you’re not interested in that kind of stuff though,” Crowley idly toys with his socks, looking a little glum.

“Oh no,” Aziraphale puts a hand on his knee, gently, and Crowley looks up at him, surprised. “I’m actually _quite_ interested,” the grin he gives him makes Crowley blush and gulp audibly.

“I uh… I’ve used them quite a bit,” Aziraphale bites his lip, worried frown crinkling his brow as he struggles to describe exactly what his interests are.

“Yeah?” Crowley gently picks up the angel’s hand from his knee, and laces their fingers together, gently squeezing in support.

“Uhm, well, I guess it’s just, hmm,” Aziraphale’s flushing bright pink, and he worriedly rucks his curls with his free hand. “BDSM, I suppose,” he waves a little, eyes worriedly flicking around Crowley’s face.

Crowley cocks an eyebrow at him, and smiles a little, “I mean, there’s a lot under that umbrella there, angel. Anything specific?” He gently runs his lips over their conjoined knuckles.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale flushes, staring at their hands. After a moment he disentangles them, and waves at himself, dressing himself in his striped pajama set. He takes a deep breath, and barrels in, “Lashing, caning, paddling.” Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up. “Pain, but you know,” he wiggles his shoulders uncomfortably, wishing he could step away from this conversation and his perversions. “With aftercare,” he waves after a moment, as if he’s throwing something away from himself, and chews idly on his thumb.

There’s a moment of silence as Crowley digests that. “Alright,” he nods.

“I mean, you don’t have to, it’s not, it’s not an all the time thing—” Aziraphale rushes forward, but Crowley gently takes the angel’s worried hands in his, and kisses the chewed thumb tenderly.

“I know,” Crowley chuckles. “Uh,” he looks away for a moment, and then smiles shyly at him. “S’pose you know this one,” he grins easily. “Tellin’ me I’m uh,” his voice goes thick, “o-okay. Good. Y’know.” He sniffs a little pointedly.

Aziraphale leans forward, grinning up at him. “You _are_ a good person, dear,” he smiles softly. Crowley turns bright red and looks away hotly, embarrassed.

“Angel,” he manages after a moment, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Something to work on,” Aziraphale smiles, and pats his knee lightly.

“Uhm,” Crowley looks down at where Aziraphale’s sidled back into laying down, head propped up next to his lap. It’s occurring to him that perhaps they might not be so neatly matched, sexual-preference-wise. “I guess I like… being told what to do?” he shrugs a little, and pulls his hair back, loosely braiding it. “And uh, just…” he struggles with how to put it for a moment. “I dunno, uh, being… bossed around, taken advantage of, but uhm, in a way… that I like…?” he shrugs and quirks an eyebrow at Aziraphale. He’s figuring that they’ve both just admitted they prefer being taken advantage of and that’s a little bit awkward, isn’t it?

Aziraphale’s smile is predatory as he looks up at him, and Crowley gulps. “Oh good,” the angel pulls himself upright, and pushes into Crowley’s space, leaning close. “I enjoy telling you what to do, and…” Crowley’s eyes have dilated to dinner plates, flushed with the angel so close with such a domineering look on his face. Aziraphale runs a thumb along his jaw line, following the trajectory closely with his eyes as he licks his lips, “…_making_ you get what you want.”

Crowley whimpers and pants a little, a high whine tense in his throat.

“Is this too much?” Aziraphale whispers, eyes softening and gently releasing his jaw in response.

“N-no,” Crowley’s voice cracks, and he coughs, looking away guiltily. He exhales deeply. “We shouldn’t uhm,” he gestures at himself, blushing. “Tests, right?” he sniffs and tightly rolls his shoulders.

Aziraphale looks down, incredibly pleased by the results he’s produced in the demon, plainly visible through the thin pajama pants. He drags his fingertips along Crowley’s thigh, a warm smile curved on his lips.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley barks, jerking away from him.

Aziraphale looks up at him, smirk slowly dissolving on his face. He sighs, and leans back after a moment. “I’m not worried we’re turning human,” he offers, rubbing his face with both of his hands.

“Oh, _of course_ you’d say that now,” Crowley grumbles crossly. “Now that you’re all horny let’s throw caution to the wind,” he gestures comically.

Aziraphale gives him a suppressing look, shaking his head. He stares at the wall for a moment, rubbing his fingers over the comforter, feeling out the threads of the constellations. “What if,” he starts, and sighs. “What if I get…?” he gestures at his middle, wincing.

Crowley blinks at the angel, disbelieving, mouth idly mouthing syllables as he tries to get his mind around what he’s suggesting.

“Aziraphale,” he huffs finally. “It doesn’t work like that,” he leans his head on his hand, and exhales, wincing smile on his face. _How can someone so clever be **so, so** dumb._

“I mean, we’re, we’re not so different, you and I, it’s not so much of a stretch,” Aziraphale places a hand on his hip, looking a bit cross.

Crowley rolls his eyes and rubs his face, shaking it slowly. “We don’t reproduce like that, angel, you should know that,” he manages, after a moment.

“I, well, I just want to be sure,” he crosses his arms over his chest. After a moment he frowns and looks up at Crowley. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘like that?’”

Crowley chuckles, and leans back, tucking one knee up to his chest and the other underneath it.

“You know, the sides stay even, eh?” he gestures a little, simulating a scale with his hands. “One million above, one million below, or however many, whatever. The point is that it’s even.”

Aziraphale nods, eyebrows raised in interest.

“So, let’s say a demon dies. Well, we’re not even then. An angel usually topples off as well, just natural order wise, but then we’re even, but not the right number,” he bobs his hands up and down, gesturing the scale up and down as he talks. “Eventually, it’ll be restored. Either the angel and demon return after a time, or someone new arrives to take their place.”

Aziraphale drums his fingers on his lips, frowning. “Is that what happened with Ligur?”

Crowley shrugs a little, rubbing his face. “I guess? It usually takes years for someone to pop out of the sulfur pools. I figured it might be something to do with Adam resetting things.”

“I don’t think so. Why would he reset that?” Aziraphale frowns.

Crowley wraps an arm around his knee and rocks a little, considering, “Hmm. S’pose Hastur could’ve called ‘em.”

Aziraphale frowns at him, and gestures for him to elaborate. “Uh, oh, well. If someone’s, like, paired? And one of them pops off, the uh, grief and uhm, l-l-l—" he huffs crossly at himself. “_Care_ causes ‘em to come back quicker. Had to throw a party for a couple back in the, ugh,” he rubs his face, squinting in memory, “1315? One of ‘em got exorcised during a temptation, and she came back in like two years, and y’know, wahoo!” He gives a half-hearted wiggling wave with his arms.

“Then her… friend is like, ’Oh, Crowley, dearest, you throw the _best_ parties, and I know Tiamat just _loves_ your parties, you simply _must _indulge us.’” He’s giving the impression of a sultry femme fatale, waving around a cigarette holder, and Aziraphale giggles appropriately from where he’s laid out on his stomach on the bed.

“That sounds sweet, dear,” Aziraphale grins up at him. “They uh, don’t really talk much about stuff like that up there,” he rubs his cheek a little.

“Ignorance is the opiate of the masses,” Crowley shrugs.

“Quite,” Aziraphale sighs and pops himself back upright again. “I guess…” he gestures a little. “With the whole holy water thing, I’m just… worried. What if we’re becoming something else?”

Crowley rocks back and forth idly. “S’pose we’ll see.”

* * *

Crowley sleeps fitfully, unused to sharing his bed with another person, especially one who keeps glowing in his sleep. Aziraphale wakes up eight or so hours later, bleary-eyed, and Crowley follows after him, palming painkillers, and slotting wrap-arounds on his face.

Aziraphale helps himself to two slices of toast, making Crowley smile a little as he makes deeply pleased noises while he chews.

“Will you do sour dough again?” he asks raptly, licking butter off of a thumb.

“Eventually,” Crowley shrugs, toasting himself a slice. “Have to find one I like, or well, one that likes me.”

Aziraphale has apparently lost the strain of the conversation, sucking on his pointer finger and staring rather pointedly at Crowley’s posterior.

Crowley clears his throat deliberately. “My eyes are up here, angel,” he points with the butt of the butter knife, somehow managing to get buttery crumbs on the corner of his glasses. Aziraphale chuckles as he grumpily takes off the glasses to wipe off the smear. Crowley stuffs the toast in his mouth, and turns to walk to the counter next to the angel. As he turns, Aziraphale rushes forward, pressing into the open space he’s presented, giving him a not-entirely-chaste hug.

Crowley coughs a little, plucking the toast from his mouth and chewing, considering the angel who’s leant back to watch him. “Alright?” he asks, tersely, taking another bite of toast.

Aziraphale doesn’t respond, just plucks the toast from his hand and sets it on the counter with purpose. Crowley tilts his head at him, confused, when the angel tilts him around so that his lower back is pressed against the countertop, and then grinds hard into him, lust hot in his eyes.

“Woah, angel,” Crowley gasps, hands freewheeling before finally gripping the counter behind him. Aziraphale tugs a hand into the hair at the back of his head and roughly pulls his mouth to his, grinding into him again. His next two calls of “angel” are muffled by Aziraphale’s mouth, his angelic hips meaningfully grinding him to hardness.

Crowley finally pulls away panting. “What,” he huffs, glasses askew on his nose. Aziraphale delicately plucks them off, setting them next to his toast.

Aziraphale gives him a prim look, tilting an ear towards him, suggesting that he’s waiting for the safe word. “N-no, uh,” Crowley gasps as Aziraphale finally pulls his hips away, but he replaces them with a hand very purposefully closing around him through his clothes. “Uh! Uh, angel,” he whimpers as Aziraphale idly undoes the buttons on his pajama pants, and they fall uselessly to the floor. “Aziraphale,” Crowley calls, as the angel motions for him to pull his hips away from the countertop so that he can tug his boxer briefs down.

“Yes dear?” he gives him a smirking smile.

“What’re you doing,” Crowley huffs as the angel roughly tugs his underwear down, exposing his hard-on to the cool air of the kitchen.

“Nothing wrong with a little hand job, hm?” he leans in, and kisses Crowley hard, fingers gentling down his cock. Crowley’s eyes go distant as the angel sidles over to the side, pressing Crowley’s narrow thigh between his legs while he begins firmly stroking him. Crowley leans shakily back against the countertop, knees going wobbly, watching as Aziraphale’s hand slowly moves up and down while he grinds himself against his thigh.

“Here,” Crowley manages after a moment, stiffly uncrinkling a hand from where he’s been clutching the counter, and slips his hand in to cup Aziraphale’s crotch. “Lemme,” he huffs, but Aziraphale interrupts him, rushing forward and kissing him again. He grabs his wrist harshly, and Crowley makes a confused noise until he suddenly finds his hand shoved down flannel pajamas, fingers suddenly in touch with a slick, sticky warmth.

Aziraphale’s extremities are warm to Crowley, and his mouth is a delightful hearth fire, just warm enough, not quite overwhelming, though it could get there if they kissed for long enough. He’s _molten_ here beneath his fingers, and Crowley groans, slipping down the counter as his knees give out.

Aziraphale yelps as he loses his footing too, and they both tangle onto the floor.

“Oof,” Crowley smooths back his hair, chuckling. He twitches, seeing Aziraphale’s face so near his cock, looking at it like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever seen.

“Hmmf,” Aziraphale pushes himself up, looking flustered. “Okay?” he gives Crowley a questioning look, straightening his pajama shirt idly as if Crowley’s hand was not still entangled in his undercarriage.

“Uh,” Crowley chuckles. “S’good?” he wiggles his fingers, and Aziraphale exhales sharply, eyes dilating. He grabs Crowley roughly by the shoulder, marrying their mouths and returns his hand to its previous engagement. Crowley wiggles his hand a little, making Aziraphale shift his pelvis around so that he can get a better angle, and adds his other hand to the mix. Aziraphale is incredibly wet, cotton shorts swamped, but it makes it easy for Crowley to draw circles around his hood, causing his hips to jump each time he dips in a little and bumps his clit directly.

This is not entirely what Aziraphale had planned, and he ends up falling back against the cupboard, fingers going languid on Crowley’s cock as he pants. Crowley shifts a little, pulling the angel’s pajama bottoms and boxers down, and kneels forward, plastering kisses on his exposed neck.

Aziraphale moans, hand digging into a shoulder as the demon teases a finger around his opening. Crowley grins down at him, grinding his thumb against his clit, teasing with a few fingers now, feeling out the edges of his slick inner labia.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale growls, gripping his shoulder sharply, and the demon chuckles, slipping his index finger in, just to the first knuckle, curling and feeling around gently. Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise, canting his hips up and Crowley loses his entire finger in him.

“Greedy,” Crowley chuckles, as the angel whines a little, bucking his hips at him, looking so desperate. Crowley draws his finger back, and brings two fingers of his other hand to softly nestle around his clit, gently wiggling it back and forth between them. Aziraphale gasps, but when he doesn’t deepen his index finger again, a dark scowl passes over his face, and he knows the angel’s going to snarl at him, so Crowley swirls his thumb around a few times, and scissors two fingers into him. Aziraphale lets out a choked noise, and he quivers around his fingers, so Crowley kisses him, soft and gentle, rocking his fingers into him and thumbing his clit in a staccato rhythm.

Aziraphale starts to get a little crazed after a bit of this, hands pawing at his shoulders and wrists, finally settling into one hand holding his head desperately to his face and the other gripping the wrist currently rocking fingers into him. He begins nodding, breaking the kiss, and panting loudly, and Crowley feels the first hard spasms begin. “Crowley,” he gasps, back arching out, fists bruising his wrist and shoulder, and Crowley’s panting too, nearly pushed over the edge just from watching Aziraphale’s orgasm. He continues rocking his fingers and twitching his thumb, gentling as the spasms slow and ease. Aziraphale jerks away after a bit, exhaling sharply, and pushes his hands away.

“Phew,” he huffs, smiling sweatily up at Crowley. Crowley considers his sticky fingers, webbed with angelic slickness. It’s certainly not affected him like holy water. “Uh,” Aziraphale laughs nervously and waves away the mess. Crowley gives him a sardonic look, chuckling, and sinks back on his haunches, huffing tiredly. He misses Aziraphale’s face as the angel wrestles with just swallowing Crowley whole, fingers playing over his lips worriedly.

Aziraphale finally leans forward, hand pressing down on Crowley’s shoulder and thumbing his collarbone as he readjusts himself next to the demon and cradles his cock with the other.

“Nebula,” Crowley jerks away, legs trapped in pajama pants but still managing to put a few feet of distance between them as he scrabbles backwards.

Aziraphale quirks his head at him, curious, mild frustration not very well hidden around his eyes. “Uhm,” Crowley gulps, and takes a deep exhale. “Can you, uh,” he makes a few motions of canting his head up to the light. Aziraphale doesn’t understand, looking curiously up at his ceiling and back down to him.

Crowley grumbles, tugging the pajama pants and boxer briefs off of his ankles, and crawls back towards the angel. “Your eyes,” he huffs, delicately tilting the angel’s head up. They’re a soft purply pink with the sunrise, and he gulps softly, fear slowly deflating.

“My eyes?” Aziraphale asks, frowning and glancing up at the ceiling again, as if there were something up there that had bothered the demon.

Crowley shakes his head, and leans back against the countertop, cock still bobbing in spite of everything. “He, uh,” he waves a little. “He had green eyes, and I just…” he sighs deeply, rubbing his face. He rolls his shoulder a little. “Easy on the collarbones too, I guess.”

Aziraphale drums his fingers on his thighs, considering the demon’s continued aroused state with a determined look on his face. This isn’t going quite how he had planned, all told.

“Sorry, uh, here,” Crowley leans forward, pulling Aziraphale’s chin to his and pressing a delicate kiss to his lips. Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise, and Crowley draws back, “What?”

“I’m not made of porcelain,” he grumbles, hands twitching as he wants to roughly grab the demon and kiss him, but he doesn’t want to push right now.

“Well of course not,” Crowley chuckles. “I prefer it that way,” he leers, and grabs Aziraphale by his pajama front as he leans back so that the angel nearly falls into his lap.

“Alright?” Aziraphale gasps, quickly readjusting a hand off of a shoulder, clasping an upper arm and a narrow thigh as he positions himself next to the demon. Crowley nips a kiss against the angel’s jaw, teasing, and Aziraphale huffs. He gives Crowley another purposeful look, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, ‘s fine,” he gestures at the hand that’s hovering near his cock. Aziraphale rocks his palm over the head, collecting the precum there, and then twists his hand down and around. Crowley groans hotly, tensing and twitching, and Aziraphale gives him a worried look.

“Good, ‘s good,” Crowley huffs, eyes dilating widely and nodding. Aziraphale continues stroking him firmly, grip a little tighter than Crowley had imagined, but about as methodical. Aziraphale squints down at his purpling cock, increasing the speed a little.

“Ah,” Crowley’s hips tighten, and he shifts a little.

“Uh, it, uh,” he exhales and Aziraphale slows his hand a little so that he can concentrate. “Take a while. Can take a while,” he manages, huffing.

Aziraphale tilts his head, eating up the panting, flushed state of the demon. “Is that a bad thing?” he asks softly, brows furrowed.

“Nnn?” Crowley manages, and his eyes roll back in his head as Aziraphale switches up his motions, making a circle of his thumb and forefinger, rocking them around the head of his cock. After a moment, he switches again, thumbing the slit roughly before withdrawing and faintly drawing his fingertips along the length, delicate and teasing. “Uhm,” Crowley huffs, readjusting himself as he keeps sliding down the cupboard and tile. “Just uh, how I am,” he shrugs a little, and Aziraphale slows a little more.

“Oh?” Aziraphale asks, withdrawing his hand. He holds his eyes as he sucks the precum off of his thumb and Crowley groans, twitching helplessly.

“Go on,” Aziraphale smiles and makes a show of withholding his hands as the demon pants and forgets that he’s supposed to be saying something, explaining.

“Oh, uh, sometimes it gets bad and I uh,” he gestures a little, “I can’t get off. Get a big panic attack, y’know.” He pushes his sweaty hair out of his face.

Aziraphale looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“Never happened to you, eh?”

Aziraphale shakes his head.

“Sucks,” he rolls his shoulders. “You can edge through it sometimes,” he shrugs. He gently plucks Aziraphale’s hand from where it’s resting in his own lap and brings it forward. Aziraphale chuckles, and roughly pistons his hand around him a few times, and Crowley’s jaw drops, low groan pulled from somewhere deep in his gut.

“Angel,” he gasps, gripping his wrist as it slows a little. “Gn-nah, it’s fine,” he grits, releasing the wrist lest he cause the angel to stop entirely. “Sometimes I like it a little much,” he whispers and gives the angel a soft, tired look, blowing hair out of his face. Aziraphale makes a very interested noise at that.

Aziraphale withdraws his hand after a moment, and draws a clear line of something in it, and Crowley rocks his head back. “Fuck,” he growls at the ceiling.

“Not good?” Aziraphale gently rubs the lube into his hand, slicking it over his fingers meticulously.

Crowley looks over at him and smirks, “’Course it’s good.” He huffs, trying to splay out his lap a little, displaying and making himself available for the angel’s ministrations. Sometimes an encroaching orgasm can be terrifying, and this one has the itchy tremblings of that around the edges.

“Get on with it,” he closes his eyes, gesturing and trying to prepare himself. It’s difficult, asking for it, talking about it, but it’s honestly better to know that it’s coming.

He was expecting it to be cool, but it’s slick and warm and his hands scrabble at the tile as Aziraphale slowly draws his hand up and down and around him with stubborn purpose. He pants, eyes desperate on his cock, wonderous as the angel undoes him with a single hand and a bit of lubrication.

Aziraphale eases his grip, and then strengthens it, almost punishingly tight, and Crowley’s finally getting close. He hates how long it can take sometimes, especially with someone else. If it’s just him and his fist, he can live with the shame and disappointment, but putting someone else out makes it that much worse. He’d let the sailor go at him, once, for over an hour, miracling his jaw better every so often, and the boy had been desperately pleased with himself once Crowley had finally rolled over the edge, grinning up at him with his face smeary.

“Close,” Crowley growls, hand tightly wound into Aziraphale’s pajama shirt, and head tilted back as he pants. Aziraphale nods, leaning in closer and kissing his neck, swirling his tongue on the purpling marks left there. Crowley growls something unintelligible, and Aziraphale feels his cock twitching and, finally, spasming rhythmically in his hand.

“Good boy,” he husks, kissing up to his ear and eying his face as it contorts in pleasure. “You’re so good to me,” he croons, and Crowley’s eyes fly open, pupils dilated but focused on nothing, and he shudders hard under his fingers. He kisses the wrinkles around his eyes and Crowley makes a soft sobbing noise, bucking into the hand that’s slowing around him.

“Zirfel,” he whimpers, eyes closing. “Donssstop.” Aziraphale quirks his head, but acquiesces, tightening his slackening hold. Crowley pants, hips jerking, and Aziraphale curls his hair around his ear, kissing the brand on his cheek. “Dearest, you’re so good,” he whispers and Crowley makes another strangled noise, panting tightly.

“G-guh,” Crowley huffs. “’nuff,” he hisses, and Aziraphale quickly withdraws his hand. Crowley looks up at him, looking flushed and exhausted, and whines as the angel begins licking his palm clean.

“I’nt fair,” he hisses, and Aziraphale chuckles at that.

“I’m not sure where, exactly, you got the idea that I’d be fair, dear boy,” Aziraphale smirks at him, and sucks two fingers into his mouth for a moment before releasing them with an audible pop. Crowley’s softening cock twitches in response, and Aziraphale smiles wickedly at him.

Crowley releases a long exhale and relaxes back against the cupboards. _What in the world have I gotten myself into?_

There’s a few awkward moments after that, Aziraphale worrying over the bruises he’s left and Crowley whispering _maybe I like that, a little something to remember you by_. They end up kissing, dangerously, with both of them still unclad from the waist down, until Aziraphale pushes himself off and rapidly dresses himself in his full waistcoat and suit, fluffing his ringlets with a hand.

He demands that Crowley help him take his books down to the Bentley imperiously, and Crowley nearly manages to walk out of his flat in just a pajama shirt and boxer briefs until Aziraphale miracles him into his rake outfit without thinking. His hair, thankfully, does not curl into the stupid ponytail and curls of the time, but he does spite Aziraphale by wearing the costume for the entire rest of the morning as he eats his toast and drives the angel to the shop. He almost doesn’t mind the shop being different as he lugs in the deliveries, and Aziraphale tugs him down into a punishing kiss before banishing him with a smirk.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley spends the next few days taking short catnaps, oddly restless and irritable. His feet are molting, and it’s gross, and he has to hobble around with crutches some of the time. It’s not helped by the fact that he’s also spending a lot of his time on the phone, pacing and arguing with legal sorts, trying to figure out why it’s so bloody hard for him to buy one single block in Soho.

He’s had a few conversations with Kai, the owner of the bakery who he’d thrust a card at, and found out that the owners of her property were attempting to raise the rent such that she could no longer afford it there. He figured he’d just buy out her property, make himself her landlord, problem solved. But then, he heard similar stories from a few of the other business owners in the area. Someone was very interested in the real estate, apparently thinking about tearing the entire block down and creating a huge park and art museum, or an “arts experience,” as one of them had simpered at him.

Crowley and other demons are the genesis of so much of legal bullshittery, and every demon knows their way around a contract, so it’s just a matter of trudging his way through it. The issue is that this just isn’t quite what he had in mind when he was thinking of setting up shop. For now, he’s just paying an exorbitant amount to rent from Kai, which makes her feel terrible, but it allows her to keep her bakery, so. Lose, win?

He’s idling in traffic, mind elsewhere as the Bentley tries to soothe him with some Atlanta Rhythm Section blending into _Don’t Stop Me Now_, when Freddie’s sultry voice suddenly purrs, “Warlock Dowling calling.”

“Oh,” Crowley starts out of his reverie, realizing he’s taken an odd detour through Berkshire without thinking about it. He waves to answer it.

“’Lo,” he smiles, “I’m actually kind of in the neighborhood if you need another pick up.” Warlock had called him a few months ago, snuffling, after a party had gotten a little too rough for him.

“Hey Nanny,” Warlock grins. He tends to call him Nanny or Crowley, depending on his mood, or the weather, or some other fickle reason. They’d had a sit down together not long after the apocalypse, and Warlock had had it out at him. No one else had seemed to notice that his Nanny had suddenly become his math and science tutor, and the gardener his languages and history tutor, and he’d had a bit of a meltdown over it while Crowley soothed him. The boy was completely human, it turns out, but he was touched, just a little, with the sight. He’d taken the whole ‘demon trying to avert the apocalypse’ thing rather well, considering everything else, though he remained very suspicious of Aziraphale. He wasn’t sure if he believed in angels, sure that if such _good_ things existed, the world would be a better place than it currently was.

“You busy this Friday?” Warlock jolts him back to reality.

Friday, what was Friday, again? “The eighteenth?” he rubs his face idly, and causes the prick currently wailing on his horn some lanes over to suddenly remember that puppies exist and boy, does the bloke have a lot of emotions about that. He tries not to smirk at the fact that this causes a multi-vehicle pileup as the man starts bawling over his steering wheel, sobbing about how _fucking _adorable puppies are, their wet noses, their stubby wagging tails, their soft fluffy ears, _they have no right to be so bloody cute!_

“Yeah!” Warlock’s phone gets blasted with wind for a second, and Crowley winces at the noise.

“I’m free. What’s up?” he drums his hands on the steering wheel, flexing them in his driving gloves. It’s getting cold enough that he’s just wearing layers for the warmth and not due to sensory problems.

“I’ve got a concert. You’ve gotta come,” he hears the boy jog up some steps. He’s probably snuck out to call him, he figures. His mother was getting a little weird, rooting through his things and demanding to know why he’d drawn another boy’s name in a heart. Crowley had made her aunt’s business suddenly falter a little, requiring her to step back into running it and get her head out of Warlock’s life. A short-term thing, but he didn’t want to push too hard on the Dowlings. Weirdly enough, demons still watched over them.

“I thought piano concerts were called recitals?” he chuckles a little.

Warlock scoffs a little, “Look, whatever. Will you be there? Dad’s out of the country, and Mom’s, well…” He sighs a little, and he can hear him sit down and pull his bag closer to him. It makes Crowley sad, knowing that he’s had to run away from home just to talk to someone that he trusts.

“Of course,” Crowley smiles. “I’ll bring Aziraphale, too.”

Warlock makes a disgusted noise at that and Crowley chuckles, “He’s better when he’s not playing at magic tricks, I’ll tell you that.”

“You two always sound like an old married couple,” Warlock grouses, and he hears him pulling up grass wherever he is.

“I s’pose,” he shrugs. He’s heard the sentiment too many times to bother arguing about it. “Text me the location, I’ll make sure we’re there.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Warlock mumbles, and Crowley jerks out of traffic because when Warlock sounds like that, he’s going to be crying and he can’t have him doing that alone.

“Give me a moment,” Crowley says, honing in on the boy’s location, and pushing the Bentley into gear.

* * *

Warlock’s tucked himself next to a brown picket fence on a small footpath, sniffling into Crowley’s ear as he gently talks the boy through some old escapade of his dressed up like a story.

He walks up, smiling a little sadly as he approaches him. “Is this seat taken?” Crowley asks, gesturing next to the boy. Warlock sniffs and shakes his head ‘no’ stiffly. Crowley sits down, wincing at his stupid feet, still sensitive with the new molt. Warlock knocks his head against his shoulder after hardly a moment, sniffling.

“Do you want to talk about it, or shall I keep telling stories?” he softly puts an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Warlock looks up at him, and for a moment he looks just like he did at four years old, nose pink and tears down his cheeks. Warlock looks away after a moment, and sinks his head further into Crowley’s shoulder, sidling closer. It’s a little wet here, and they should both be getting uncomfortable spots on the seats of their pants, but Crowley ensures it’s dry and comfortable as they sit in silence, gloved hand gently carding through Warlock’s long hair and rocking him to and fro unconsciously.

“Mom’s having an affair,” Warlock states finally, staring starkly at nothing in front of him. Crowley has been aware of several affairs at the estate; neither of the elder Dowlings were particularly faithful to one another. Nanny Ashtoreth had given Harriet a stern talking to once when she was careless enough to cart one of her flings around the estate in his drawers. Crowley had dragged Warlock off on a picnic, quite impromptu, with Brother Francis in tow to keep the boy ignorant of that one. Thaddeus was quite a bit worse, but being that he wasn’t really at home all that much, Crowley hadn’t needed to do much masking there.

Crowley sighs, and hugs Warlock a little closer. “She knows I know,” he whispers, and he sounds terrified.

_Ah_, Crowley realizes. _There_ was the reason she was getting suspicious of him, rifling through his things. Crowley had worried it was homophobic panic, but no, something much more selfish and boring.

“Hmm,” Crowley stares up at the darkening sky, and delicately pockets his glasses. Warlock had told him a few meetings ago that he had very early memories of his eyes, sans glasses, looking down at him with a soft fondness as he consoled him. He can’t really place the memory, but he’s not against removing his glasses for someone that he loves.

“Do you feel like you’re in danger?” he asks, softly, thumb rocking over the boy’s shoulder.

Warlock snuffles into his coat, not answering. _Hmm_. “Perhaps I’ll stop by,” he gently tilts up Warlock’s chin with a finger, and smiles at him. “I am a demon after all,” he gives him a sly smile. He’s only planning to lay down a few protections and _fuck off’s_ around the boy’s room, maybe give him something like the little snake anklet he’d given to Aziraphale. Warlock gives him a few sharp nods, and ducks out from under his arm, taking his hand as he leads him back to the estate.

He’s twelve, and he’s starting to become an adult, as both he and Adam were wont to tell everyone hotly when they felt they were being slighted. But its times like this that Crowley just sees the boy he’s raised, smoothing away tears and rocking him on a knee. It makes his smile a little lumpy, and he pushes his glasses back onto his face as he draws a quiet obfuscation charm around the both of them.

The estate is honestly better kept than when he and Aziraphale were in attendance as people are actually tending the grounds now. It takes a suite of six people rather than one daft old angel, but it looks much better for it. One of the gardeners out tonight is an older demon, parrot nestled beneath a purplish fauxhawk. They perk their head up as he passes by, sniffing, and Crowley stares very hard at the back of the house, desperately hoping that his charms have worked.

As Warlock pulls him inside, he winces against what feels like a plastic tarp dragging around him, suffocating and encasing him. Someone has laid something down here, perhaps after the apocalypse, specifically for _him_. He’d seen the trip wires around the estate before today, and danced around them just now with Warlock tugging him along, but this particular trap has him holding his breath for a few beats as he tries to figure out how to sashay around or through it. He exhales heavily, pulling Warlock to him as one of the maids nearly runs the poor boy over, blazing past. He takes a few short breaths, Warlock looking up at him in wonder, and he manages to convince the trap that, _no, I’m not **that** Anthony J. Crowley, you must have me confused with someone else. _

“Nanny?” Warlock whispers quietly, as Crowley’s still holding the boy to his chest, breathing in and out to steady himself.

“S-sorry, yes, go on,” Crowley releases him, delicately dusting off his shoulders and rolling his hand out to motion for him to lead the way. Warlock gives him a confused look, frowning, but takes his hand again, leading him upstairs. Crowley pauses at the threshold of his room, double checking that he’s not going to walk into another trap, but the daft bastards are too stupid to think of putting in yet another layer in the one room that he’d most want to visit. He smiles at Warlock, who’s frowning at him still.

“What?” Crowley asks, drawing his fingers along the doorway casing and inscribing a few protections there mindlessly.

Warlock squints at his hands as he draws them down, and tilts his head, “What’re you doing?”

“Oh,” Crowley pauses. Warlock’s sight is apparently getting a little better if he can catch him doing magic on the fly. “Protections,” he shrugs, thumbing the sigils away into the ether. “Nothing that’ll hurt you,” he motions.

Warlock walks over and looks up at the molding with his mouth agape. “I saw someone else do that,” he says, and Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him. “Not here, the back door,” he points.

“Ah,” Crowley nods. “Yes, it appears that certain people,” he gives a displeased nod of his head, “don’t want me here.” The smile he gives Warlock clearly says, _that certainly worked out well for them, didn’t it?_

“Why?” Warlock pulls him into his room and shuts his door. “Is it ‘cause of the… ‘end of the world’ stuff?”

Crowley shrugs a little, looking around the cluttered room. “I s’pose,” he offers as Warlock keeps looking at him expectantly. Warlock pulls off his scarf and sweater, tossing them around the room carelessly.

“That’s not fair,” Warlock huffs, crossing his arms. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

Crowley pulls his old rocking chair out, and waves to put away the stacks of clean laundry atop it away. He sits down, lounging his limbs out not like Nanny Ashtoreth at all. A bit like Ford Harrison, his tutor alter-ego, but he’d primmed up just a little, sat stiff and peered down his nose because it had seemed like the thing to do.

“For now,” he nods. It’s a little difficult for adult human beings to understand _eternity_, even more so for children with barely a decade under their belt.

Warlock pulls out some science homework on the sly, making him go over a few lessons with him, and afterwards, he wards a number of the boy’s cupboards and cabinets, and yanks out a floorboard for him to secret away especially sensitive items. He fashions one of his bobby pins into a silver snake charm that looks like his brand, and gives it to Warlock.

“It’ll work better if you keep it close to you,” Crowley pulls his trench coat back on, shrugging into the shoulders. “It’s recharged by your hmm,” he gestures idly, “you?”

Warlock looks up at him confused. “Will it hurt?” he asks, holding the charm away from him as if it might bite him.

“No,” Crowley shakes his head, curls bobbing to and fro. “It’s just like… hmm, it’s like how a solar battery works, I guess,” he shrugs, struggling to describe it. “Or a thermal battery? Do those exist?”

Warlock quirks his head at that, but shrugs and tucks the charm into a pocket. It’s too early for him to be going to bed, but Crowley kisses him on the forehead, and smiles down at him like he did for so many years, tucking him in. It makes the boy a little drowsy. 

“Give me a call if you need me.”

Warlock nods, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks, Nanny,” he yawns.

“I’ll see you on Friday. Be sure to practice, knock everyone dead,” he wags a finger at him, grinning. Warlock rolls his eyes at that, but grins in spite of himself.

“I love you,” Warlock calls quietly, as Crowley cracks the door open.

“I love you too. Take care of yourself,” he waves a hand in farewell, and quiets the door closed behind him. He leans his forehead against the closed door and lets out a long exhale.

“Nanny Ashtoreth?” a familiar voice calls from down the hall, and Crowley’s eyes pop open. He turns to see Harriet Dowling silhouetted in a doorway, arms akimbo, and obviously cross. His hair is longer than it had been back them, beginning to cluster in curls, and his trench coat is long enough that it might suggest a conservative dress. It’s dim in the hallway, and sometimes people just see what they expect.

“The one and only,” he turns, and leans his shoulder against Warlock’s door with a smirk playing on his lips, clearly claiming ownership. _Mine. Not yours._ His protectiveness woven with love unconsciously strengthens the protections he’d laid earlier, sigils stretching a little. _Safe and sound. Loved_.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Harriet’s wearing sharp heels which make satisfying _clunk_ noises as she stalks up to him, pushing herself uncomfortably close into his space.

“Warlock called me,” he offers, smirking at her attempt at cowing him away from the door. He holds his position, and regards her from behind his glasses. She blinks first and takes a step back, huffing.

“I would prefer it if you let one of us know when you decide to drop by,” she curls a lip at him, but can’t hold his penetrating gaze. “I believe I made that clear last time.”

“I did let someone know,” he smiles, baring his fangs at her. _Just not someone you’d listen to_.

She rolls her eyes, glaring up at him. He breaks the stare down after a moment, plucking a stray hair from her shoulder, and tossing it aside. “It has been some time since we talked, Mrs. Dowling, but I do not believe I need to reiterate my stance in regards to your son,” he puts his hands down in front of him, and something like a tire iron appears there for a second, quickly reshaping itself into his old umbrella after a moment.

“You’re not his nanny anymore,” she huffs, and he can see tears and exhaustion hidden beneath her anger.

He smiles a little, umbrella clicking on the floor as he shifts his weight. “Funny, then, that he calls me that still.”

There’s a moment of silence between them until Harriet takes a step back and crosses her arms, looking sullen. “Why does he call you and not me?” she huffs, tears in her voice.

Crowley sighs, rocking on his feet a little. “I would wager,” he starts, delicately gesturing with the umbrella, “throwing away one’s prized possessions, mocking their interests…” Harriet looks up at him hot and upset, ready to slap him. “It doesn’t instill trust,” he finishes, flourishing the umbrella a little.

She holds his gaze for a moment, mouth open as if she’s about to start in on a tirade, but his quirked eyebrow apparently quells her. _Am I wrong?_

“He doesn’t talk to me,” she growls, finally, shaking her hands in front of her as if she wants to throttle something.

“I can’t imagine why,” Crowley smirks, no longer being paid or needled by Hell, so he can snark all that he likes.

“Ms. Ashtoreth, do not take that tone with me,” Harriet huffs, and something in her flustered expression reminds him of a person he’s rather fond of.

“Mrs. Dowling, trust takes time to develop,” he gestures with a gloved hand. She glowers at him. “Buying him toys and then throwing them out later in a fit of pique is not the way to a boy’s heart. Perhaps it works with… older sorts, but it’s not the sort of behavior to model for a child.”

Harriet begins pacing back and forth at that, surprising him.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she growls darkly, voice thick with suppressed tears. “He hasn’t touched me in _years_,” she gestures wide, mascara leaving black tracks on her face. He wants to say, _I don’t see what this has to do with mistreating your son_, but he bites his tongue.

“I do believe that you and Mr. Dowling would be better suited to an… open relationship,” he waves as if he’s throwing something into the air between them. “Well-communicated, they can be quite enriching,” he nods at her, and she gawps.

“I won’t suggest therapy,” he smirks, knowing they’ve been through perhaps fifteen counselors in the past twelve years, “but simply put, you could _all_ be getting what you need, without hurting one another.”

She has to blink hard and shake her head a few times, mouth agape, as she tries to marry the concept of_ conservative Scottish nanny_ with _advocates open polyamorous relationships_.

“Think it over, hm?” he tilts his head at her, smiling a little. “And perhaps do not take it out on innocent parties,” he gives her gritted smile, baring his teeth and he doesn’t bother to shave down the fangs for once.

She gulps a little at that, but nods. There’s a period of silence, then, and Crowley looks away from her for a moment, considering how best to take his leave. “Uh, do you… shall I show you out?” she asks, looking incredibly lost and even a bit childish with her mascara tracks still on her face.

Crowley pulls a handkerchief from somewhere and dabs at her cheeks. “I know my way around the house, Mrs. Dowling.” She gives him a curt nod at that, and turns around and stalks away from him.

He watches her, considering for a moment. He lays his hand against the door, softly tapping more protections into the framework. “She’s gone,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” Warlock sniffles.

“Will you be alright?” he asks, considering the shadow behind the door.

“Mm-hm.”

“Good night, dear.”

“Good night, Nanny.” 

* * *

Crowley takes the back door, completely forgetting about the trap that had nearly engulfed him on the way in. It won’t be so easy to trick it next time he tries to enter the house, but he doesn’t really have the time to think about that because he trips on a thin magical wire as he walks down the path away from the house.

_Shit_.

He runs for the bushes, panting, hearing the thundering footpads of a hellhound coming from, well, it sounds like it’s coming from _everywhere_. He busts through the immaculate shrubbery and sprints to the sleepy back street Warlock had tucked himself into earlier. He leaps into the Bentley, and guns it, blazing out of town at speeds usually only seen in spacecraft or perhaps very advanced military aircraft.

London streets pass by like quick snapshots, pedestrians and cars just blurs, and he screeches to a smoking halt in front of the bookshop before leaping inside, forcing the locks. He ends up panting inside the second set of doors, holding the doorknobs behind his back.

The shop is dark, and Aziraphale’s apparently thrown some dust and disorder around to dissuade customers. His shelves are still looking a little empty, nonetheless.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley calls, although he can tell the angel is unlikely on the premises at the moment. He would’ve popped a curly head out at Crowley forcing his way inside like this. Crowley closes his eyes and sinks to the floor, his feet throbbing too much to continue holding his weight. He carefully feels out the space behind him, trying to tell if there’s a hellhound perhaps snuffling at the doorway, but all he can sense is a few random people walking by, huddled against the cold.

He plucks his shoes and socks off after a moment, and grimaces at the state of his feet. He’s already molted twice in the past few days, and running from the hellhound has caused errant scales to loosen and then dig bloody half-moons into the bottoms of his feet, serrating around his ankles. He picks them out, wincing, and wriggles his toes, hissing as he has to crack off the claw on his big toe. The nail underneath it is soft and weak, as are the scales just unsheathed by this third, hellhound-induced molt.

He leans back against the doorway, panting, and considers his options. They aren’t particularly numerous.

After a bit of steeling himself, he crawls over to the rolling chair that Aziraphale has behind the till, and uses it to roll into the back of the bookstore. He’s so happy to see its familiarity that he actually cries a little, clamoring into the safety of the daybed with the blue and yellow tartan blanket. He coils himself into the blanket and manages to nap fitfully for a bit. It does feel a lot more secure back here with the wall separating the front and back, he muses, but after a while, he checks his watch. It’s Monday evening and Aziraphale is still not at home.

“Where in the world are you, angel?” he grouses. He can tell where Aziraphale is tonight, any night really if he concentrates, even with all the hubbub, his capacity in tracking the angel is still functioning. But Aziraphale is out to dinner, and has been for a while. If the angel had a cell phone, Crowley would be buzzing it incessantly, littering him with nagging texts. Maybe. The angel does love his food, and while this is important, maybe it’s… maybe Crowley’s just overreacting.

After moping about a little, whittling his already miniscule self-worth down, he miracles the bloodstains off of the blanket and limps back into the front of the shop. He tugs out some errant paper, and digs around for a proper pen. He happens on a fountain pen with a striped teal and brass body with a nice, hefty weight, and shakes it to miracle a little ink into it.

Their letters had gotten intercepted at one point, just by a human thankfully. The man had thought they were both spies and had spent ages trying to decipher their coded language hinting back to events millennia old. Eventually he had made poor attempts at misdirecting them, fake letters sent to each of them to try and prod them into spilling more of their supposed cipher.

It had caused Crowley and Aziraphale to develop little symbols, imbued with a fleck of blood and magic, which would say to the other, _yes, it’s actually me_. Crowley’s had started out as a snake, sharply zig-zagging like a lightning bolt, but over the years it has begun to lapse into something more like an ouroboros. He nips at a finger and draws out something that looks embarrassingly like a jagged, serpentine heart. He doesn’t notice the symbolism, thankfully.

Crowley’s handwriting is always sharp enough to cut, but very clear and easy to read. He’d learned to write with cuneiform and has never really lost the sharp points and flicks. Aziraphale’s handwriting has improved over the ages, originally quite rudimentary, drooping one way or the other without a guide. He’d perhaps spent a certain century without the demon’s constant attention honing the craft, and has developed a gorgeous copperplate which looks fit for wedding invitations and official announcements.

“Aziraphale,” he writes, “Warlock is having a recital this Friday at 7pm. I visited the Dowlings’ estate. Harriet sends her regards. I tripped something there, and may have dragged a hellhound into London. It lost the scent. I don’t think it’s near your shop. Sorry.” He hums a little after that, chewing on the brass cap and leaving a few fang marks.

“I’ve got some property nearby for a shop. I’m going to hole up there for a bit until this blows over. Call me when you read this. Love, C.”

He crosses out and rewrites “love” a few times. _Demons don’t love, they don’t sign “**love,” **what’s wrong with you?_

He slips his sensitive feet back into the bloody socks, wincing and pulling out a few scale shards that he’d missed. It takes him about fifteen minutes to work himself up to putting on his shoes, and standing up. It feels like he’s walking with a number of fine, sharp pins wiggling in his feet and on his ankles, but he grits his teeth and heads towards the back of the shop again. He is rather distraught when he finds that the angel has removed the back-exit. He’s too strung up on pain to jump across the wall, so he limps out to the front of the bookstore, eying his surroundings as he purposefully walks to the back of the bakery.

He hasn’t really done a lot of renovations on the back-office yet. It makes him a little surly at himself because Aziraphale had apparently just waved a hand and redone so much of his place in seconds, cheeky bastard. So far, Crowley has just gotten rid of the particle board and all but one of the plastic ‘desks,’ pulled in a more comfortable computer chair, and set up a duplicate of his laptop from home, connected to the two monitors left over from the previous inhabitants. One of the monitors had been broken, or malfunctioning at least, several stripes of incorrect color ruining anything you were working on. Crowley expects the monitors to work, so they do. He isn’t quite sure why you’d want two at first, but he quickly learns and can’t imagine using just one screen anymore. A second monitor mysteriously manifests itself next to his laptop at home, as well.

Today, he limps in and sits on the computer chair, rolling into the storage space to pull out an old dish tray, deep enough to soak his feet in. He pours warm water and some salt into it, and wishes he’d thought to install the portal to his home already because he’s a bit hungry, actually. It’s difficult to get really comfortable in the computer chair with his feet soaking, so after a bit of back and forth, he undresses and grimaces to find that not only are his feet molting, but the span of scales that’s been on his lower back pretty commonly for a while is coming up as well. It takes a few tries, but he manages to morph into a snake, and curls himself up in the salt-bath, feeling very sorry for himself as he slowly drifts to sleep. 

* * *

After the apocalypse, with Crowley’s grumpiness at being dragged out all the time (it wasn’t like the angel didn’t notice), Aziraphale’s picked up a bit of a social life again. He’s part of a number of book clubs, two LGBT support groups, a few bookseller guilds, and he even tried jazzercise once. He’d thought well, jazz wasn’t so bad, perhaps this is just a new type of jazz, and he could certainly get behind that. He stayed through the entirety of his first session, surprising himself and everyone else, but never went again. One of the older, wiry women still stops by the shop occasionally in an attempt to goad him back.

This particular Monday evening Aziraphale has dinner with a man from New Zealand that he’s buttering up desperately in the hopes of getting his hands on some of his books. He’s come home tonight with a bounty, not exactly what he was aiming for, but a book on demonology will probably do him more good than the book on “authentic” demon summoning techniques that he had been vying for. He dallies around the bookstore all night, tidying and reorganizing shelves with new stock, and occasionally nipping into the new vault. You see, the white safe door bolted into the firmament isn’t just a new concession to security for his books. His vault hides a special passageway, opened by a book pulled on this specific shelf here, which spirals down to a windowless cube, already shining with bright white devil’s traps.

He's taking his time, ensuring he gets the inscriptions and sigils right because he’s dealing with a Prince, and well, he doesn’t want to accidentally call them and then lose them. That would be _embarrassing_, and it might allow them to go out and do more damage.

There are stories he’s become aware of, humans foolishly being killed by their own traps, attempting to summon someone too high up like Beelzebub or Lucifer on a first try. He knows that devil’s traps, when calling someone specific with a bit of power, can pull on the entity that lays them, even if it’s just a random minor demon. To ensure the security of the creature he’s attempting to capture, and perhaps even out the energy draw, he’s laid out six traps, one on each interior surface of his dungeon. He has not really considered that if one trap could draw energy enough to kill someone, then perhaps _six_ traps might be enough to kill someone like himself.

It’s still very much in the early stages, and it will probably take a month before the sigils and protections are settled in enough for him to feel comfortable attempting anything. He finds he keeps picking at them, though, like he used to poke at the protections on the shop. He’s sure to edit and remove as he’s working here, though, so that he doesn’t accidentally rewrite a charm from anti-mold to ONLY MOLD.

All of this is to say that, Aziraphale does not notice the letter crinkled next to the till until sometime Tuesday morning. He plunks a stack of books on it, almost damning the missive to obscurity, flittering towards his trash can, but he senses something of Crowley from the little snake-heart blended with magic and tugs through the loose papers to find it.

He’s ringing Crowley before he’s even gotten past “Warlock has a recital…” and listens to the phone ringing out with increasing trepidation. He closes his shop immediately and begins pacing, calling the demon non-stop with his heart clanging out a terrified beat in his chest.

After an hour of nothing but Crowley’s phone ringing out, repeatedly reaching his sassy answering machine, Aziraphale slams his antique phone down hard enough to crack the receiver off. He irritably waves to right it, and then goes outside to investigate. He can smell Crowley’s blood around the entrance of his shop, and he tries to follow the scent around. There are mild hints of sulfur around, but he’s not really sure if all hellhounds smell like that. Dog smells, well, like a dog, perhaps mingling with a little ash sometimes. That could just be him playing in the fireplace, though.

Crowley has already laid out his normal protections around his new shop in the time since he’s acquired it. If Crowley had already introduced Aziraphale to shop, or wasn’t feeling a little trepidatious about the shop’s current run-down state, Aziraphale would easily be able to walk right up to him as if he were sleeping in his bedroom. Instead, Aziraphale finds himself ordering more stock, filing his taxes, and organizing his closet by fabric type and color, each time getting more and more frustrated with himself.

“What _am_ I doing!” he huffs at himself, tossing a beige cravat which is hardly fit to be a cleaning rag at this point away from himself with vitriol.

Aziraphale cabs over to Crowley’s flat and snoops a little, but there’s no telltale signed lease or anything that would easily point him towards a location. Crowley has that particular documentation carefully filed under “mousetraps” and “dish rags” in the new shop, where it will probably stay until sometime next year when he realizes he’s going to need a business license and that he’ll have to pay taxes.

When Aziraphale considers Crowley’s mention of “local” he’s figuring that he picked someplace in the general London area, perhaps somewhere “local” to his Mayfair flat. He cannot conceive of the demon attempting to move into a location not thirty feet from his shop, though if he thought about it, that would make a lot of sense for a creature as lazy as him.

He's starting to get a little frantic by three, dialing Crowley from his own landline (which may not have existed until Aziraphale expected it to be there), and stifling a sob as it continues to ring out.

_It usually takes years for someone to pop out of the sulfur pools, _Crowley’s voice drawls intrusively into his mind.

What if he’s gone. What if he’s really and truly gone, and he has to, what, _call him_? Well, he has been bloody-well _calling_ him, and it hasn’t made a lick of difference so far.

Did they count as paired? Would it be enough? …would Crowley even be willing to come back? For him? Is it cruel to make him come back? What if he doesn’t want to?

He rests his head on his hands, peering down at Crowley’s granite countertop, wincing just a little at the disordered appearance reflected back at him. He closes his eyes and peers into the Other Space, usually so softly white and inviting. It feels cold and unwelcome today as all he wants is anise and cinnamon and rueful fanged smiles. He sniffs, and reaches out his hands, all four of them, feeling for something like the creature that had sucked-in light around it, something a little broken behind a crooked smile and tinted glass, sauntering up to him so easily throughout the ages.

It’s faint, but there’s something he can feel in the distance. He leans into it, unconsciously popping away from Crowley’s flat back to the shop. Here, it’s almost like a rope leading him along, a soft beat pulsing through the scaled coil in his hand. He walks out of the shop in a daze, pulled by something that’s rooted deeply in his chest, almost uncomfortably tender at the base near his heart.

He pushes blindly through the door that still looks like a tucked away emergency exit for the bakery, and he’s still peering at _Elsewhere_, so all that he sees at first is a being which appears to be Crowley but is much too small, hidden behind a gaussian blur of obfuscations. He uses a pair of hands to pull aside the spells and blinks back into reality, confused by the dim darkness and the dish tray at his feet full of sullied water.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, but slowly he recognizes a pile of what are probably Crowley’s clothes on a chair, his phone cracked onto the floor, buzzed out of a pocket from all the times Aziraphale has called. There’s no demon visible in the vicinity, though he can still sense him here.

He kneels down, pawing through his clothes for clues, but then he finally notices that there’s something long and black in the water. Fear seizes him as he’s starting to believe they’re in Hell. It’s gray and depressing in here, and here is Crowley in snake form, dunked in a container of water.

He grabs the snake out of the water, horrified that it could be holy water and _what if he’s been sitting in holy water for hours?_

Crowley sputters awake at the sudden groping, Aziraphale cradling him to his body and weeping. He coils himself into the angel’s coat, chilled after sitting in a salt water bath for nearly twenty-four hours.

“Crowley? Crowley, are you alright?” Aziraphale manages, overjoyed that Crowley’s moving and apparently alive, awake, even if he’s currently still a snake. He giggles a little as the demon coils around inside his coat, trying to find a proper nook or pocket to secret himself away in next to the warmth the angel gives off.

_Warm_, is all Crowley manages, as he cuddles himself into a pocket usually reserved for the angel’s watch.

“Um,” Aziraphale coughs a little, and looks around a bit more. “Do you know where we are, dear?” All he gets in response is radio silence, so after a moment, he collects Crowley’s clothes and phone up, miracling the cracked screen and interior bits back into functionality. He starts to take a better look around, flipping a light switch and peering into the tiny kitchen and bathroom with confusion.

He can’t really understand why Hell would keep a partially used package of insect killer here, or a copy of the _Dastardly Deeds_ news, one week out of date with the sudoku partially filled in with a spiky hand strewn on this counter. Once he finds the left overs of a crumbly, crusted sandwich, just one or two bites nipped out of it, he realizes that no, they’re not in Hell. He delicately carts the molding bread into a trash can, and decides to take a step outside to see exactly where Crowley has decided to set up shop.

Crowley twists a little in his coat at the sudden intrusion of light, and Aziraphale is sure that he must have made some sort of mistake. Perhaps he’s just willed himself to one of the back alleys by his shop out of… feeling a bit lost? That’s surely it.

He turns around and pushes the door back open, peering at the dimness of the spot he’s just found Crowley in, dish tray still full of salty water and scales.

_Well, isn’t this interesting?_

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and walks back to his shop, reorienting his coat occasionally as Crowley keeps squirming. He walks into the back of the shop, and once he’s in his kitchen Crowley suddenly ejects himself from the pocket, overwhelmed by heat and wool on fresh scales.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale starts as the snake spasms on his wood floor.

Crowley doesn’t particularly like being in snake form, not for any period of time longer than absolutely necessary. It can be kind of claustrophobic, and he finds that his mind starts simplifying a little, more concerned with eating rats and secreting himself away in dark holes. It’s also, always, damnably hard to get himself back into human shape, his _preferred_ shape, thank you very much.

Aziraphale manages not to try and interfere, chewing on his fingers and wishing he could do anything to help.

After a few minutes, Crowley manages it, surging up, slick with salt water, sweat, and the gross membranal fluid left over from a rough change. He retches at the taste in his mouth, and shudders. His senses are splayed out to their full degree, and all he can do is clutch at Aziraphale’s wooden floor with black claws and pant helplessly at the sheer multitudes of information being forced into his brain.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls quietly, squatting a few feet away from the demon. Crowley jerks at the noise, and spends a moment trying to orient himself _here_, in Aziraphale’s kitchenette, no, wait, kitchen, a demon with a humanoid body and not an entity built just to sense everything, helplessly, within a block’s radius.

He tries to say Aziraphale’s name, but what comes out is a growl which only mildly gutters at the syllables.

“Dear, what can I do to help?” Aziraphale asks anxiously, trembling hands reaching out.

Crowley can’t talk, somehow his larynx hasn’t fully formed or oriented itself in the correct positions yet, so he grumbles, and holds the angel’s eyes, shoving the image of a white fish steak in a bit of parchment paper at him.

“Oh, oh, meat, of course,” Aziraphale bops himself on the forehead. After he’d scooped Crowley from death’s clutches from bullet holes, Crowley had spent a week only consuming varieties of raw meat and water. He’d slept a lot and once he was fully healed, had managed to put on a small amount of weight which Aziraphale had been a bit delighted to see. It had vanished nearly immediately after a shivering panic attack or two away from the angel.

Aziraphale rushes off out of the shop, completely forgetting about the option of food delivery because there’s a butcher just down the block that he frequents for their delicious rib-eye sandwiches.

Crowley’s left shivering and cold on the new wood floor. He hadn’t really noticed the change in the kitchen before, and it bothers him.

He crawls to an upright position, scrabbling at the mussed pile of clothes that Aziraphale’s left on the counter. He had planned to dress in his underwear, maybe tug on his trench coat for warmth, but he’s smeared with so many gross fluids that he retches again. He falls on the ground, making a wet splat noise, and has to shudder and shiver miserably by himself for a moment before he can muster crawling upstairs to Aziraphale’s very pink bathroom.

_Why pink?_ Crowley grumbles, crawling into the too-tall tub. He’s too focused on cleaning himself to remember to close the bathroom door, and by the time he’s noticed, he’s made it into the tub proper, panting with the effort. He notices the strips of shiny new skin over his breastbone where he’d clawed himself in bed that one night. Aziraphale will probably notice that too and won’t that be _grand_.

He twirls the taps, starting as the shower sprays him directly in the face with cold water for a second before it warms up. The bar of soap Aziraphale has here is scented with sandalwood, which Crowley is glad of, something he doesn’t mind. He needs to wash his hair, too, but for now just getting the glistening membranous fluid off of his skin is all that he cares about. It isn’t always this bad, but with the recent molts and Crowley just not feeling entirely his _best _(when has he ever felt his best? No, no don’t go there, that way lies madness), he’s come out of the change from snake to human slathered in a gross mucus which always makes his skin crawl until he can shower it off.

He’s leaning awkwardly out of the tub, scrabbling at a cupboard door for shampoo that doesn’t singe his nose when Aziraphale calls his name from downstairs with a thread of panic in his voice.

“Up here,” Crowley manages, voice so rough it’s utterly unintelligible other than just as noise.

Aziraphale thunders up the steps, and stands panting in the bathroom doorway.

“Oh,” Aziraphale huffs. “Here,” he pushes Crowley’s hand from the corner of the cupboard door thoughtlessly, and Crowley falls back painfully as he’d been pinning a lot of his weight forward there. “Ah, I’m sorry!” Aziraphale gasps, jumping forward, eyes scanning him up and down for injuries. Crowley can’t really manage any words at the moment, just pushes his head back out of the low-pressure spray and leans back, wincing.

“You, you liked this last time, I think,” Aziraphale pulls out a brand-new bottle of vanilla scented shampoo. He’d noticed the shampoo Crowley had chosen, of course, because he’d left it in a spot the angel wouldn’t usually have put it. He’s bought two new bottles just to make sure that he has something on hand in case the demon happened to end up in a situation, well, like this.

Crowley cracks an eye at him proffering the bottle towards him, and laughs softly. He nods, looking tired, and Aziraphale sidles up behind the back of the tub, where there really shouldn’t be any room for him. He needs the spray to be a little higher pressure (he hasn’t ever really used the showerhead before this), and it modernizes itself a little for him. Crowley leans his head into the spray, thrumming in pleasure at the warm water in his hair. Aziraphale pours a liberal amount of shampoo into his hands, and gently places his hands near Crowley’s head, about to caution him that he’s going to touch him, when Crowley leans back, yellow eyes chuckling a little. He nods and closes his eyes and Aziraphale begins kneading the soap into his hair, slowly and deliberately.

Crowley moans softly, tilting his head obediently around as need be, and Aziraphale hears occasional rumblings that sound something like “angel” as he slowly massages shampoo through his thick locks.

“Eyes closed,” he cautions, and delicately leans Crowley’s head into the spray of the showerhead, and begins working the warm water through his hair, rinsing. He repeats the process a second time, and though Crowley looks thin and peaky, he relaxes deeply into the tub, breathing slow and deep.

Aziraphale reaches for his washcloth and soap as Crowley pulls his head from the second rinse, idly shaking his head a bit like a dog. He catches sight of the angel lathering up a washcloth and chuckles.

“Hm, no,” he roughly takes the soap and washcloth from the angel. “Let’s not,” he coughs and makes shooing motions with his free hand.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Aziraphale huffs, soap-sudded hand on hip. Crowley gives him a shrug, and shaking, pushes himself upright. “Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, putting a hand out as he nearly loses his footing in the slick tub. “Please,” Aziraphale huffs, making to take the soap away from him as he holds him steady by the upper arm.

Crowley quickly soaps himself up, as he’s already done the deeper cleanse he’d needed earlier, and leans into the spray, managing to get Aziraphale quite damp as he continues to support him. He twirls off the taps, and turns to leave the tub, but the height of the tub edge is simply daunting and his legs feel like jelly.

“Why’s your tub so deep,” he grouses, rubbing his cheek with the heel of a palm.

“I—What?” Aziraphale huffs. He leans forward and delicately scoops the demon up and drops him on the fuzzy-pink covered toilet. Crowley winces a little at the scratchy fabric on his nethers.

“Why d’ya even have a toilet,” he grumbles, primly tucking his thighs in and covering his lap with a hand.

“Crowley, you’re mumbling and I can’t understand you,” Aziraphale sighs, and holds out a pale pink towel. “I’m going to dry you off, unless you want to,” he says, jerking the towel out a little. Crowley plucks the towel from his hand, roughly drying himself off and ringing his hair out into it.

“Clothes?” he husks, pushing his vocal cords to produce enough noise that the angel can parse it.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale waves and there’s a completely different set of clothes than the ones that he has downstairs, more like his pajama set but there is, thankfully, a set of underwear miracled from his closet tucked in. He has to lean on Aziraphale’s shoulder a few times as he pulls on the boxer briefs and flannel pants. He wiggles into the bra and quirks an eyebrow at the sleep-shirt that Aziraphale has most definitely willed into existence.

“I-I saw it in a shop and thought…” he shrugs effusively. It’s more the sort of thing one might see online, an ugly sweater with an old car on it in maroon, not quite the Bentley but close enough to squint at it, maybe with a few stylistic liberties taken.

“Thanks angel,” Crowley huffs, blushing, and wiggles his way into it as well. It’s surprisingly soft, and the arms are loose enough that he can easily coil his hands inside of them. There are no socks in the pile, which is perhaps for the best. He hooks his knee up to take a closer look at the damage done, and grimaces as he has to pull off another claw.

“Oh, uhm,” Aziraphale looks pale at that. “I, I got you some food, if, if that will help?”

Crowley shrugs a little, thumbing the arch of his foot hard and glad that the scales don’t scuff off at that. They’re hardening up a bit, like they should, but there’s still the various rubbing and scale-stabbing injuries to deal with. He struggles to his feet and, leaning hard on the angel, makes his way downstairs to the kitchen.

“Didn’t mention you added this,” he grumbles, as he wedges himself into a high chair at the counter.

“Uh,” Aziraphale walks past him, picking up a package of beef chuck. “I thought I’d take up cooking,” he smiles a little wanly as he unwraps the package and drops it onto a cutting board.

“Mmm,” Crowley quirks an eyebrow, watching as Aziraphale begins lopping the steak into Crowley-sized hunks. He places them on the wrapper, raw, and pushes it towards the demon, pulling another package to the cutting board.

Crowley’s biggest issue is probably texture, and raw meat is not really a texture that he likes. It’s too soft, and gristly, and mushy, and muscley. He blinks hard, focusing on just swallowing and not thinking about what he’s eating, reverting a little to snake as he just mindlessly swallows hunks whole.

They continue like that for a while, Aziraphale apportioning with loud, precise chops and Crowley eating the hunks as if they’re marshmallows or appetizers that he can’t get enough of.

“Water,” he motions towards the sink, after finishing the fifth steak. Aziraphale blinks, lost in the ache of his muscles, repeatedly chopping up red meat, and looks at the demon, lost, for a moment. “Water?” he repeats, and his voice almost sounds normal. He swallows a little thickly, wincing.

“Right,” Aziraphale nods, shaking himself, and sets the lethal-looking knife aside to turn to his sink. He washes his hands vigorously, a little unnerved by how familiar it is to see his hands mucked with gore like this. He pulls out a tall glass and fills it with water, stumbling a little as he hands it to Crowley.

“Th’nks,” Crowley grunts, and downs the water in one go, adam’s apple bobbing hypnotically.

Aziraphale moves to return to the cutting board but Crowley waves a hand. “’Nuff,” he grumbles, pushing himself off of the high chair with a little trouble.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale starts forward as Crowley trips out of the kitchen, gripping the edge of the doorway with a shaking hand.

“M’fine,” he grumbles, limping towards the couch.

“Oh, _are you?_” Aziraphale finds himself snarling, and only a small part of him is horrified at that, the rest is just aching and tired and taut with anxiety.

Crowley turns towards him, looking confused, and he falls back, ungainly, onto the couch. He tugs the tartan blanket up around him, ensconcing even his head, red frizzing curls poking out around his face.

“I’m alive, ain’t I?” he says, after a moment, unable to hold Aziraphale’s gaze.

Aziraphale rubs his face with his hands roughly, and exhales. “Yes,” he sighs. “Yes.”

He turns to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of port, and takes a deep drink from the bottle before walking out and sitting in his armchair across from the demon. After a moment, he waves and a glass jug of water appears on the coffee table in front of Crowley, along with the empty glass he’d just downed. Crowley carefully unwraps himself from the blanket, pouring himself another half glass of water.

“What happened?” Aziraphale manages, sounding tired, and vacillating between drinking directly from the bottle and from his glass.

Crowley sips at his glass, and sighs deeply. “Harriet’s having another affair. I’m sure Thaddeus’s still fucking everything that moves,” he pushes his hair up out of his face. Mr. Dowling had, twice, propositioned Crowley-as-tutor, much to his surprise. _I like a man with a bit of spring in him_, he’d leered, ruddy-faced. He had no idea _what_ exactly he’d meant by that, and he'd politely declined both times.

“And I’m sure neither of them is going to the recital on Friday,” Aziraphale sighs, well-versed in listening to Crowley gripe about the Dowlings and their poor parenting.

“Nope,” Crowley grumbles, finishing his glass. “Harriet’s been going through his stuff lately,” Crowley waves as he pours himself another glass. “Threw away a bunch of his clothes that we bought together, rooted through his journals, just…” he makes a frustrated noise, hand rucked back in his hair.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale sighs, sipping his port. He’s barely restraining himself from rushing the demon to the point.

“Warlock was…” he sighs, considering his glass through blurred eyes. “I had to see him,” he gestures, figuring that Aziraphale won’t understand.

“And he had a hellhound?” Aziraphale smirks, just a little.

“No,” Crowley huffs. “No, that, ugh,” Crowley sets the glass down and rubs his eyes hard. “There’s demons still watching over the Dowlings,” he sighs. He should’ve told Aziraphale this months ago when he’d first noticed.

“What? Why?” Aziraphale leans forward in his chair, nearly spilling his glass.

“I don’t know,” Crowley sighs. “They’ve got traps on the premises too, and this time,” he takes a deep breath. “Someone put a trap on the back door… uh, for me,” Crowley is very determinedly not looking at Aziraphale, and it’s probably for the best, because Aziraphale’s intrigue at this has spiked so high that Crowley would frown at the delight of oncoming vengeance-wrought so obvious in his face.

After a long moment of Crowley rocking his head and shoulders around, unhappy with himself and this conversation, Aziraphale offers, almost managing to sound uninterested, “Was that what set off the hellhound?”

Crowley blinks up at him, confused. “No,” he shakes his head. “I hit one of the tripwires on the way out.”

“Tripwires?” Aziraphale ticks his fingers on his glass. _Interesting_.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, tired and aching all over and completely missing Aziraphale’s excitement at the discovery of a clue, a live example of the Prince’s magic which he can study.

“Did you see any sign of it?” Crowley asks after a moment, waving at the general outdoors.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, mind completely elsewhere.

“The hellhound?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t, there was a bit of sulfur in the air, but no,” he shakes his head, and then squints at Crowley, frowning.

“What?” Crowley gripes, rubbing his face with the blanket.

“When were you planning on telling me that you had a shop?”

Crowley groans, dropping the blanket. “Dunno,” he sighs.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, and finishes his glass with a gulp. He pours himself another, grimly.

“Y’know there’s someone trying to develop it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. “I get worried letters from my lawyer occasionally, but your contract is airtight, thankfully.” Aziraphale had nearly lost the shop to mobsters and sly businessmen, so Crowley had sidled in and drawn him up a contract which basically made him complete and sole owner of this particular square of Soho, from the earth’s core out to the stratosphere. Aziraphale has had to grumblingly wave off requests for people to route around in the sewers, adding in more plumbing here or wiring there.

“Oh,” Crowley’s eyebrows quirk up. “I forgot about that,” he grimaces and rubs his eyes again.

“What?”

“The contract,” he waves at the angel. “I was gonna try buying out the block and doing the same sort of thing as that,” he grumbles.

“Really?” Aziraphale chuckles suppressively. “Why the whole block?”

“They’re already edging out a couple of the owners, raising their rent too high,” Crowley sighs, eyes sticking closed and he can’t bring up the energy to reopen them. He tilts sideways, and there’s a pillow there that he curls an arm under and cuddles up to.

“Why don’t you rest, dear,” Aziraphale’s somehow standing next to him, though last Crowley had checked he’d still been in the armchair. He delicately runs his fingers over Crowley’s frizzing curls and smiles. “I’ll go ensure there’s no hellhounds or Princes out there,” he rubs Crowley’s cheek, softly, and Crowley vaguely feels the brush of lips against his forehead just before he falls asleep.

* * *

Aziraphale walks out of the shop and considers the rather obviously skidded-into parking job of the Bentley. _How did I miss that?_ he huffs, knowing full well that he had been too busy being delighted with his recent addition from the New Zealander, and it had been dark at the time. _Excuses, excuses._

He pokes around, but ends up wrinkling his nose as he finds a potential reason for the sulfur-smell: a dozen eggs, crushed under a car tire and baking in the sun for a number of days. He waves a hand to clean it up, and hails a cab.

It’s Tuesday evening, so the traffic is a bit bad, but he makes it out to the Dowlings’ estate with some mild chatter about the cabbie’s grandchildren and their hobbies. He hasn’t been here in over a year, and as he looks up at the manor lit up for the evening, he sniffs a little at the wave of emotion that rolls over him.

He’d enjoyed the gardening and tutoring, honestly. Having somewhere to be, every day, had been mildly anxiety inducing at first, but he quickly fell into a routine and found the whole thing rather enjoyable. It also came with the benefit of seeing Crowley very nearly every day, maybe just waving at each other from across the estate each day, but there he was, within walking distance and out of danger for the most part. Once they were tutors, Mr. Cortese was driven to and from their tutoring sessions by Mr. Harrison, so he and Crowley had gotten plenty of time together then as well.

He knew that it had been hard on Crowley, for various reasons, not just the horrors of being awake every single day. Aziraphale does count those years as some of his happiest in recent memory, even with the constant glaze of anxiety that had enveloped them at that time. _The boy’s too normal_. Yes, well, it turns out there was a reason for that.

Aziraphale adjusts his coat and bowtie, quickly dabbing at his cheeks and nose with a handkerchief, and purposefully walks towards the estate.

It’s not particularly hard to tell where the hellhound and Crowley had come through. There are a few cloth-wrapped shrubs, not yet plunked in the ground, next to two large holes in the greenery wall. He recognizes Crowley’s hole by the size, roughly at a height that Aziraphale could duck through comfortably (and he does, sneaking a few looks around and sidling forward). The hellhound’s hole is alarming, tall enough to rip through the shrub from root to the top, perhaps nine or ten feet.

He squints, though he doesn’t really need to, peering at the fiery tripwires laid about the dirt footpath from the back of the house. He can see the one that Crowley twanged, ripped up and inert. Crowley had danced around three others between here and the door, and Aziraphale walks forward to consider the door where another trap is flapping in the wind.

He’s so focused on magic and traps that he does not notice the human man walking up to him with purpose, hand hovering at his waist near a CB radio.

“Excuse me,” the man barks, “What are you doing here?”

Aziraphale jerks upright from where he had been stooping to peer at runes and the like, and turns around with a blank smile on his face, fear in his eyes.

“Ah, hello,” he smiles tremulously. “You startled me,” he laughs a little nervously, eyes darting around, taking in any other threats in the vicinity.

The man squints at Aziraphale, head tilted. “Do I know you?” he asks, really feeling like he should recognize the white curls and the queer air.

“Ah, uh, no, I uh, I just have one of those faces, I think,” Aziraphale grins, walking sideways away from the back doorway and towards the Crowley-shaped hole in the shrubbery.

“You really don’t,” the security guard states, squinting and rubbing his head because it’s starting to hurt a bit.

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiles anxiously. “Sorry to bother you,” he delicately tips his head, and then walks away through the hole in the shrubbery as if this was a perfectly normal thing to do. He waves a hand irritably, cracking several important bits in the CB radio as the man draws it to his lips to report in with.

Well, he’s learned a little bit more about employer of the angelic agent, at least. He knew they were blunt, and not very good at subterfuge from a bit of idle water-cooler chatter with a few of the thoroughly befuddled angelic agents who hadn’t made it near Crowley. They were all idle grunts, most of them flustered by his spells and obfuscations as they got sent to “deliver on Crowley” as they all seemed to parrot at him. Most of them had interpreted it as a mere discorporation request, and Bubbles was currently “on leave” due to something, so perhaps he’d taken it a little further than his employer had anticipated.

Now he also knew that the Prince was perhaps not as old as they were pretending to be as their spell work smacked of the middle ages, not the swirling aetheric stuff that beings from the beginning of time tended to create. It does depend really. Some creatures will pick out a specific period and splay in that era, replicating everything from it, but there’s a lack of freedom and acknowledgement of the flexibility of reality that leads him to believe that no, this one’s young_._ He knows that some humans have crawled their way up into the angelic choirs, though Heaven was much stricter about those things. They clearly delineated a line here, “No women allowed,” and “No humans above this line.” No one wanted a repeat of the Nephilim, but souls had snarlingly torn down the barriers, slowly, over the centuries.

For some reason, he hadn’t really ever considered that they might be living in a world populated with princes of hell culled from humanity, especially as he and Crowley have sat on the sidelines, horrified by exactly what lengths humanity would go to. _Do you idiots know what in the world you’re doing?_

Aziraphale calls another cab, considering the trail of the hellhound he’s been unconsciously following. It smells like swamp water, algae, and muck with a veneer of wet dog on top. He can tell the route that Crowley took simply because he knows what Crowley and the Bentley feel like together, and they practically apparated from the Dowlings’ estate to his shop without touching the pavement at all. The hellhound lumbered around, confused for a while, before locking onto something of Crowley, and then apparently loped off with purpose.

It is perhaps worth mentioning that what had driven Aziraphale into a mindless bloodlust after taking a wing from him was a hellhound soul-paired with a very strong demon, a terrifically vicious duo. Aziraphale honestly would’ve preferred it if Crowley had mentioned the whole “hellhound arrives at the eleventh birthday” thing _a heck of a lot sooner_, so that he could’ve prepped himself a bit. As is, he’s been trying to psych himself up for this the entirety of the ride over, worried that he’ll quail and run away at the sight of the hellhound in person. For a long time, he’d been rather afraid of dogs thanks to it, but there is a very, _very_ big difference between a human’s canine companion and the hellish variety he’d fought in the war.

Aziraphale tips the cabbie thoughtlessly, stepping out of the car and considering the beast which is tall enough to bump its head against streetlamps. It’s pacing around and around Mayfair, quite a few blocks from Crowley’s flat, repeatedly tripping car alarms and managing not to stomp on people only due to a bit of hellish glamour mixed with people’s natural dislike of “spooky” or “fucking terrifying,” even if they couldn’t see what exactly what was generating those feelings in an area.

Occasionally it gets frustrated and sinks back, appearing as a giant gargoyle, attempting to get its bearings. It’s been trying to figure out why it can’t hone on Crowley’s scent for the past day. It clearly leads here, but then it keeps fading out and then it’ll get distracted by a ham sandwich or a squirrel, and it’s all rather frustrating.

Aziraphale feels terribly cold and still as he stares at the beastly gargoyle, eyes burning silver-bright. He doesn’t call his sword, _no never the sword, not again_, but a long spear, gilt in gold, appears easily in his hand as he stalks up to the beast. Somehow it doesn’t notice him until it’s too late, and as it ducks its head low to begin snuffling around again, Aziraphale thrusts the bladed end through the beast’s chest, threaded between ribs perfectly and at just the right angle to quench itself within its heart.

If they were Elsewhere, if this were a real battle, the hellhound would be cleaved from the world at that, a heavenly weapon crushing its vital organs. But they’re corporeal, earthly at the moment, so all that Aziraphale hears is a low plaintive howl which shakes all the buildings around them as the hellhound melts into the earth. His spear disappears with the beast, and a puddle of muck is all that’s left of the entire affair.

It takes him a few moments to realize he’s still standing there, panting, tears blurring his eyes. He takes a deep breath, and stalks away, not bothering to clean his face as he walks back to the bookshop, vibrating with a tense energy.

* * *

Crowley wakes up, stiff and groggy, to the sound of a door slamming twice, thanks to the new double-entrance. Aziraphale slams into the back too, door swinging and banging against the new wall and Crowley pulls himself up, rubbing his eye and yawning.

He squints at the angel who looks incredibly pale, trembling with tears streaming down his face soundlessly from where he’s sat stock still next to Crowley’s blanketed feet.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley husks. “Y’alright?”

Aziraphale shakes his head no in two quick jabs, sniffing slightly. _Hmm_. Crowley slinks forward, curling his chin on the angel’s stiff shoulder and draws his blanketed arm around the angel’s shoulders. “You smell like ozone,” Crowley sneezes. Aziraphale is practically radiating heavenly magic, glow pulsing along with his heartbeat.

Aziraphale starts at that, looking down at where Crowley’s leaning on him with glittering silver eyes, something strong masking the normal emotiveness he’d exhibit at that, frowning or knitting his brows in worry.

“You’re not hurting me,” Crowley waves off his concern with a hand.

He crawls forward a bit more, poking and prodding the angel into leaning into him. It takes a bit of doing, but he manages to drag Aziraphale so that he’s lying, head cradled under Crowley’s chin, curled up between the demon’s spindly legs.

Crowley sighs, tiredly, and _pulls _Aziraphale into him. He’s never really done this before, but it seems like the thing to do. Aziraphale stumbles into him, wrapping himself in Crowley’s dozy comfort as the demon rubs his hands against the angel’s arms as if he’s trying to encourage circulation. Aziraphale is terrified of something, but he can’t really tell what. It’s not the same as what Crowley’s panic attack had been like, but he decides to try something similar. Being pulled into a dimension entirely _Aziraphale_ had helped him come to his senses, so to speak, so perhaps enveloping the angel in _Crowley_ will work similarly. It’s worth a try, he figures.

He relaxes back, pulling the angel with him and slows his breathing, focusing on just letting himself go a little bit, just a teensy bit. He has to concentrate, a lot, on just staying small enough that people won’t notice him. He’d been young and stupid at one time, sure, had stupidly fanned himself out, giggling and cocky. It had only earned him scars and people shoving unwanted responsibilities on him, while others always writhed in the background, desperate to try and cut him down and prove their own worth. So, he smothers and stifles it usually, _nothing to see here, move along_. It’s just easier for everyone involved, most especially him.

He exhales deeply and hisses as he lets a blade of himself go, just a little, and it lurches out of his control for a moment. Aziraphale’s clutching at his chest, head trembling a little with sobs, and as Crowley eases himself out, a black shadow dense with magical potential, Aziraphale whimpers.

_Alright? _Crowley asks, tense, eyes closed so that he doesn’t quite notice that his wings have popped out, sans cloth-ripping violence this time, dense and large around them. He’s sure he’s not doing this right, but Aziraphale clamors up, head tucked into his neck, desperate to be closer, envelope himself in scaled kindness and love.

Crowley hisses softly, a hand holding Aziraphale’s curled head and supporting him with a wing without really thinking, idly rocking and bobbing him a little as if he’s soothing a young child. “S’alright, angel,” he hisses, “I’ve got you.”

* * *

Aziraphale dozes on him after a while, and Crowley pets his hair as he works on drawing the lump of himself that he’s stretched out back in. It stings, like unfurling a limb that’s fallen asleep and then being forced to draw the tingling, just-barely sensate thing back into the uncomfortable, low-circulation position again. He coughs limply a few times, nearly losing his place and having to start drawing it back in again. Aziraphale wakes at one of those sputtering breaks, hands tight in his sweater.

Crowley grunts and manages to shove himself back into _tiny, small, nothing to see here_, panting a little. He makes to check his watch, worried that somehow the days have slipped past him and it’ll be Friday or Saturday, Warlock and doctor’s appointments missed. His watch is currently sitting on a stack of his clothes in the kitchen, though. He sighs deeply and finds that he somewhat enjoys the warm weight of Aziraphale pressing down on him at that.

Aziraphale pushes himself up, looking worn. “Got a little overwhelmed, I suppose,” he gives Crowley a shaky smile, and ruins the soft moment by kneeing Crowley in the groin as he shifts himself upright. Crowley cracks his head hard on Aziraphale’s chin as he ejects the angel from his lap, hissing and huffing in pain.

“Hoooof, angel,” he manages, tightly.

“Sorrysorrysorry,” Aziraphale chants, hopping back and forth on his feet.

Crowley breathes slowly in and out for a bit, and finally rolls his shoulders, one eye still wincing a little. “So uh,” he coughs. “What brought all that on?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale trembles a little, looking away from him with his hand stuck in his hair. “I uh, took care of the… hellhound.”

Crowley blinks at him, considering. “I see.” He cracks his neck audibly. “Thank you.” He waves and his watch flies over to him, and he slots itself onto his wrist. It’s mid-day Wednesday, thankfully, and not Wednesday the twenty-third or whatever it’d be next week. “Sorry you had to do that.” _If I’d known it’d effect you this much, I wouldn’t have let you do it_.

“Anything you’d like?” Crowley asks, struggling upright, and grunting as he shoves his enormous wings away. “We can just order it in,” he shrugs, limping towards the kitchen.

“Uhh, I’m not actually that hungry right now?” he sounds surprised at this development.

“Mmm,” Crowley chuckles. “Just the left overs of the panic attack. You’ll be hungry in a bit, c’mon,” he motions for the angel to follow him. He shakes out his socks and slips his chilling feet into them and washes his hands, rifling through the left-over steaks and other bits that Aziraphale has in his fridge.

“You got a spice cabinet?” he huffs, pulling out a pair of tri tips.

“Uh,” Aziraphale stutters. “N-not yet.” Crowley manages to suppress his eyeroll, and just smirks behind his curtain of frizzing hair. _So, you want to cook, but you ain’t got any of the makings for it, eh? _He waves and a boring cupboard that previously housed just two tins of loose-leaf tea becomes more robust, housing the sort of spices he’ll need to sear these steaks into something edible.

“I thought you just made bread?” Aziraphale sniffs as Crowley kneads a spice rub into the meat.

Crowley shrugs, wincing as he rubs an eye with a spiced knuckle, “I can make bread and eat it.” He considers Aziraphale’s homey oven and stove top. He needs a grill, really, and more time than he really wants to spend making food that he’s not going to eat. He washes his hands of the spice rub, and rolls his shoulders again.

“No guarantee on anything else,” he gives Aziraphale a shrugging smile, and picks up one of the steaks in a palm and concentrates on it, his hand turning black and flames licking up to sear the steak into something that the angel will eat.

Aziraphale makes a few small noises about him not having to do this, or that they can just order in, but Crowley’s concentrating on the second steak now, ensuring the meat’s cooked through consistently.

He pulls a white plate from a cupboard above him and slaps the two steaks onto it carelessly. Not a spectacular plating, all told.

“Suppose I should have a garnish or something,” he waves idly, and a few slivers of cheesy baked potatoes nestle onto the plate as well, miracled from a restaurant halfway across town where he’d memorized the angel savoring them.

“Aren’t you going to—” Aziraphale starts, wondering why Crowley’s just plunking this all on one plate instead of two. Crowley waves him off.

“Gonna need a break after the raw meat,” he leans forward on the counter. “Bon appetit,” he flourishes with his fingers, purposefully mispronouncing it with a smirk.

Aziraphale nibbles on a potato wedge and eyes the steaks as he doesn’t have any utensils to dig into them. Crowley lumbers around and gets him some proper silverware, a steak knife, and a tall glass of water. “Wait until you feel a little better for wine,” he smirks as Aziraphale whines at that.

Aziraphale sighs, very put upon, but doesn’t drink any wine as he’s told. Crowley watches him, blinking sleepily and wishing he could trust himself to take a restful nap that wouldn’t eat up nine days.

“I’m gonna head back to my flat,” he offers after a while, Aziraphale primly kissing his lips clean on a napkin.

“I’ll come with you,” Aziraphale nods.

Crowley frowns at him. “I’ll be fine,” he grumbles.

“No, no, I,” Aziraphale sighs. “It’ll be easier if I’m there, since we’re going to Limbo tomorrow. And I can wake you up then,” he gestures.

“Right,” Crowley nods, grumpy that the angel’s being so reasonable so quickly after his little meltdown.

* * *

Crowley’s flat is still a mess, and he doesn’t really bother to wave away the tossed clothes or cracker wrappers. He beelines for his bedroom, stripping and being sure to grab a change this time, and thrusts himself into his familiar shower. Aziraphale lugs Crowley’s throne into the bedroom with a little trouble, pulling a book from his coat.

Crowley chuckles at him when he comes out of the bathroom, steam clouding behind him.

“What, ya gonna read to _me_ now?” he chuckles, sinking into his bed. Aziraphale has a fine voice, and can even keep a tune sometimes. He was not created with an ear to make music and sing, though, like Crowley was, and he’s very much aware that most people find his reading voice rather dry, papery, and sleep-inducing. Perhaps, for once, that’s not a bad thing.

“Would you like me to?” He’s going to have to find himself another, more appropriate book if that’s the case.

“Nah,” Crowley sighs as he settles into the comfort of his own bed. “Teasing,” he wrinkles his nose, eyes already closed as he nestles in.


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley sleeps a little fitfully, a sequence of short naps more than a consecutive set of REM cycles. It leaves him feeling droopy, but his feet are better, scales and claws stiff where they’re supposed to be, supple when needed. He fills a large metal canteen with water and waves off Aziraphale’s insistence that he eat _something_. Every time he thinks about eating, he thinks of meaty marshmallow-shaped chunks and grimaces, having to suppress a gag.

“I’ll eat after,” he sighs. “Maybe.”

Aziraphale glowers at him, but stops prickling him. They leave after a little fuss, Aziraphale realizing he’s forgotten the card at the shop, so Crowley huffs and drives back by the shop. Then, Crowley realizes that he’s left his stupid postcard at his flat, and while he probably doesn’t need it, it does make checking in faster, so…

They could easily get to Limbo the same way they’d used to visit their old headquarters, but they’re both rather leery of that entrance these days. Crowley’s driving out to the countryside, heading for an old forgotten cairn-entrance which will hopefully be low volume.

Limbo hadn’t been created in the beginning; it’s something entirely generated by human invention. Aetheric beings hadn’t really seen the need for shades of gray like previously-living things did, and they had scoffed at the first souls that squinted at the current state of things with distaste. Not everyone who wound up in heaven or hell with a bit of drive left over looked at the current state of heavenly and hellish politics and went, _YES, that’s exactly what I want to get tangled up in!_

Quite a few souls began rabblerousing, scrabbling about the fairness of things. Did it really make sense for a starving boy of only four years, who may have stabbed someone over a crust of bread, to suffer eternal damnation? Was it truly fair that a rich man, who ruined many lives with his pedophilic tendencies, bought his way into heaven through charity? Angels and demons in power shrugged and waved them off, not really understanding the gradations of morality, especially after a Decision had been made, nor the idea that time might have an element to play in atoning for one’s actions. A place opened up between the realms for them, surprising the entities of Heaven and Hell, and Limbo began changing the rules, mysteriously fitting into the structure of things as if it had been planned that way in the beginning.

It began with the appeals courts. Aziraphale and Crowley ended up becoming the two most requested and frequent consultants, as the two longest-standing agents on Earth, and consequently, an angel and demon who actually understood humanity. They were often called in to speak and advise on cases which they had no hand in, as well as offering insight on those they had touched, or even cases with people who claimed they’d been there when they so clearly had not. It added a nice thickness to the reports they handed in: two minor temptations, five purgatory consultations, one blessing foiled, one satanic conversion. This isn’t to say that the advice or advisement they gave was necessarily good or entirely helpful, but their opinions are respected, and they’re both rather familiar with Limbo and its safe-keeping neutrality laws.

Crowley drives, carefully, between two crumbling cairns on a grassy hill, rain pelting them and making things dangerously muddy. He’s not entirely sure that it’s worked at first, but after a moment something shifts, and they’re in the familiar gray parking lot of Limbo. Everything’s gray in Limbo, unsurprisingly. It’s raining here, too, most likely just as the realm tries to simulate normalcy or what they’d expect. Crowley digs around in his glove box jangling out numerous pairs of sunglasses and tapes until Aziraphale huffs and pulls a large beige umbrella with lacey edges out from his bag. They huddle in towards the hospital entrance, getting uncomfortably damp as the location’s entrance has changed since 1957, and Crowley has to weave back and around, following peeling, bold arrows pointing them around.

Crowley winces a little as they enter the waiting room as he’s a little sensitive to spells invoking time and space and they use them pretty extensively in here. Waiting in a hospital waiting room is a vulnerable, worrying experience for anyone, not least of all beings like angels and demons. They’d struggled a lot in the beginning with people missing their appointments, or specifically running in at the very last moment in the hopes that no one would see them. Yes, Limbo is neutral ground, but you can see one another just fine, even if you can’t pull out swords, and being seen twiddling thumbs in the waiting room could be seen as an expression of weakness, inciting coups and rebellions if a certain entity had the audacity to come in to have a hernia looked at. To solve the problem, the hospital waiting room is spelled such that it’s actually not just one place or time, but many at once. Demons from Crowley’s original angelic caste are probably one of the few sets of beings who can wince and feel the shifts here, as they’re the ones who were tasked with the whole _creation_ of time and space in the first place. Crowley can feel that there’s probably five or so beings in the room that can’t see one another as the space kaleidoscopes around him.

“You look pale,” Aziraphale plucks his elbow up, coming back from drying off the umbrella near the entrance.

“Mm,” he nods, swallowing back the nausea, and checks his watch idly. It’s 1:52, so he pulls Aziraphale up to the bored-looking clerk behind the counter.

“Crowley, got a 2 o’clock,” he slides his dog-eared postcard across the counter. Aziraphale begins rooting around in his beige bag, rather Mary Poppins-esque, for his own card.

The clerk takes the card and begins tapping on the computer, eying the demon/angel pair when they’re not looking, peering into Aziraphale’s cavernous bag and bickering a little. He can see everyone in the room, unlike them, and usually an angel and a demon cannot come to the counter and interact with one another and him at the same time. He shrugs, offering Crowley a clipboard with some papers clipped onto it and a pen twined to it. He’s seen stranger things, honestly.

“Fill this out and bring it back,” he sniffs a little, then pauses, taking the card that Aziraphale’s handing him. “You too?” Aziraphale nods, smiling. Crowley makes a soft noise, touching the angel’s shoulder and pointing out where he’s going to sit, and leaves him to it. It’s all basic stuff: _Have you eaten today? What medications are you taking? Have you had any notable medical events occur since your last visit? (Note: This **does** include discorporation.) _

He returns the clipboard to a different clerk as Aziraphale’s still engrossed in talking and pointing at the screen with the clerk they’d started with. “Ah, right, what other options do I have?” he hears Aziraphale say at the counter next to him, and chuckles a little fondly, smiling at the humanoid creature with a "Pronouns: They/Them" sticker on their chest. A lot of the people working in Limbo have pronoun stickers because they’re just souls, and many have had their secondary sex characteristics rubbed off by millennia of just existing and not really needing them anymore.

“We’ll call you,” they rub their nose with a sleeve, nodding. He returns to his seat, room spiraling as apparently a sixth and seventh person enter the room together and he nearly sits on someone it seems like. He exhales tightly, shaking his head and wiggling a little in the seat to settle himself.

He looks around, noting that the place he’s currently rooted in is apparently a Planned Parenthood somewhere by the posters on the wall. A nurse calls his name, and he gets up, cricking his neck a little, and is startled by Aziraphale running over and shoving his canteen in his hands (he’d been holding it in his bag.)

“Here, here, sorry,” he laughs lightly and pecks him on the cheek, grinning, “Good luck!” He rushes back over to the clerk who’s poked a head out, giving them both a curious look.

“Crowley, A?” the nurse calls again, peering at a clipboard.

“Right,” he waves, and stumbles towards the door the nurse is holding open, wincing. She quirks an eyebrow at his odd walk, and once he’s through the door, he heaves a relieved exhale, leaning against the wall. They have the back area subdivided carefully to the point that they don’t need to do all the space-time nonsense back here.

“You alright?” the nurse asks, offering her elbow in case he needs help walking.

Crowley sighs, pushing his hair back, feeling a bit winded. “Sorry, been a while since I’ve been here,” he offers a wan smile, as if that easily explains it. He shakes himself and motions for her to lead the way. She leads him to an alarmingly large scale which he delicately steps on, and gets his height and weight taken, her taking his canteen so that he doesn’t bloat the numbers accidentally.

She pops some of the flags outside of a door and opens it for him, following him in and peppering him with a few more questions as she takes his blood pressure twice, since he’s anxious and panting a little the first time, as well as his heart rate and a few other things. Part of why he winces at checkups in Limbo is because he knows that a lot of the data that they collect is used to study them, figuring out what might be normal or abnormal for a demon of 6,000 years. He’s not really fond of the idea of being used like that, even if it might benefit him in the long run. What if someone else got access to that data? Limbo’s never had a breach, but if it did, it would be _catastrophic_.

“Doctor Callahan will be with you shortly,” the nurse finishes, typing something and then smiling at him as she takes away her cart of diagnostic machinery.

He exhales softly, glad that they’ve improved the lighting since last time. The room here is a bit cramped for his liking and he still has a thing about small, dark rooms. He sips at his canteen, wondering what Aziraphale’s up to right now when the door busts open and a tall woman steps in with a messy brown ponytail and a monocle.

“Hello, Anthony,” she smiles as if she knows him, and he squints a little. He’s mostly dealt with the emergency personnel, but she is a _little_ familiar.

“H’lo,” he manages, sitting tensely on the table covered with tissue paper.

“Is ‘Anthony’ alright?” she asks, flipping through something on the tablet in her hand. “I think it was Crowley last time I saw you,” she chews her lip idly.

“Oh,” he nods suddenly, remembering. After a while, Hell (and Heaven) gave up on maintaining their own bank of healers and started dumping the left-overs of their interrogations on Limbo. He’d been in here for two weeks once recovering from his stubborn silence about a plague that he most certainly had cured against orders. He could’ve just thrown himself under the bus, saying it was the angel’s fault, but he hadn’t wanted to deal with the consequences of that either.

He’d suffered both, in the end: a period where Hell put a handful of other demons across from Aziraphale, only to be mortified as they died of horrible, mysterious discorporations or were thwarted mercilessly until they gave up. Beelzebub had glumly reassigned him back to earth after a few years, looking rather cross and managing to lodge the memo a few inches into his palm with their punishing handshake. 

“Uh, either,” he shrugs.

“Alright,” she smiles. “I think I’ll go with Crowley, it’s what I’m used to,” she airily pats his arm, and he isn’t able to mask his tension at her drawing closer, fingers stiffening to black claws around his canteen. She frowns at him. “Are you okay?” she asks, purposefully taking a step away from him and quirking her head.

He sullenly looks around the tiny room. “D’ya have a bigger room?” he manages tightly, rubbing his face and not looking at her.

“Oh, sure, let me see,” she nods and pokes her head out of the room, peering at the flags showing which rooms are currently occupied. “Here, c’mon,” she motions and he follows her stiffly. The room she opens for him is much larger, enough that he could pace a bit if he wanted, and the examination table is replaced by a maroon couch. _Ah, a talk therapy room_, he muses.

“Thanks,” he sniffs, awkwardly standing for a moment before she motions for him to sit on the couch, pulling something up on the computer next to the burnt orange lounge chair.

“So, what brings you in today?” she smiles at him, tapping on her tablet again because the computer’s apparently not cooperating.

“Uhm,” he mutters, sipping at his canteen and taking a deep breath. _Where to start?_

“Uh, I guess… is it… can a demon be immune to holy water? And… consecrated ground and stuff,” he waves, frowning at the floor and rubbing his face. Aziraphale and he have agreed unanimously not to admit anything about the exchanging of bodies, especially because it appears that the whole charade hadn’t even been necessary. It’d certainly been helpful, though; neither of them really wants to think about the length of the recovery period needed for them to come back from their respective trials if they’d done it correctly. It would probably seem a little awkward that they’d be coming to Limbo over a year later with questions, but well, they’d just have to hope that they wouldn’t poke or prod too much about it.

Callahan considers him, tapping a stylus to her lips. “Well,” she sighs, after a moment, setting her tablet aside. “Yes and no,” she laughs a little at the perplexed frustration on Crowley’s face. “It could be a couple of things, and we can do some tests, if you like,” she shifts forward in her chair a little. “Angels and demons really aren’t so different,” she spreads her hand forward, gesturing at a level playing field, a well-studied lecture that Crowley’s heard before. “We’ve had some demons ascend, so it could be that,” she offers, and Crowley’s innards turn to ice and he grips his canteen so hard that it shoots out of his hands, clattering to the floor.

She laughs a little softly, rolling the canteen back towards him with a foot, and Crowley shakes himself, picking it up and looking sheepish. “Sorry,” he rubs a hand through his hair. “I’m uh, I’m still immune to hellfire though,” he shrugs, hoping that that’s enough.

“Well,” she tilts her head, considering. “You know… sometimes things are just ineffable,” she grins at him, laughing and shrugging, and Crowley quirks an eyebrow at her, smiling in spite of himself in response. “You two really have injected that phrase into _everything_, I swear, we use it a lot around here.”

“Ah,” Crowley nods a little, barely suppressing a pleased smile at that. “I don’t know why, but sometimes there’s people who are immune to things that they shouldn’t be. It happens in humans, and it happens to you guys too. I’ve got a werewolf in Germany who’s completely immune to silver, got shot full up with silver in the 1930s, and now he’s got piercings _everywhere_, all silver,” she covers her mouth a little as she chuckles, knowing that she shouldn’t be telling him this.

“Huh,” Crowley taps a foot, idly. “What’s the test to check, then?”

“Ah,” she nods, pulling her tablet back up from the arm of the chair. “Well, we’ll need to take a core sample,” she says, tapping something into the screen, and he squints at her.

“Core sample? What, am I tree?” he huffs, sipping his canteen again.

Callahan chuckles at that, and waves a hand at him. “No, no, it’s,” she pauses, taking a breath. “It’s, uhm, we take a sample from you, usually on your arm,” she gestures around the inside of her arm, where blood is usually drawn. “The issue is that, hm,” she chews on her lip, knowing that he probably won’t like this. “You know how optometrists will dilate your eyes?” she asks, wincing, because hardly any non-human creature has recognized this analogy in all of her of time doing this.

“Yeah?” Crowley rubs his eye behind his glasses without thinking in response. He’s actually familiar with some bits of optometry since people figure he has eye issues with the glasses. “Your eyes get stuck like that for a while or something,” he motions with his fingers wide around his eyes to simulate the dilation.

“Yes!” Callahan grins, “Yes, it’s like that, but with uhm, with your true form.”

Crowley inhales deeply, blinking at the floor as he digests that.

“Do you, er, have someone you’d trust to take you home?” she asks, wincing a little at how pale he’d gotten at that.

Crowley tilts his head around unhappily. “No,” he sighs. “Don’t think I’d…” he sighs, considering the size of the room they’re currently in. “Don’t think I could leave if you did that.”

She blinks at him, monocle not ejecting from her cheek thanks to a small charm. “Right, okay,” she nods. “Well, we can keep you overnight, that’s no problem.”

He drums his fingers on the side of his canteen in his lap. He and Aziraphale are both having this done, he knows; it’s the primary reason they’re here after all. “Can I uh, have someone with me, during?” he asks softly.

“Uh, yes!” Callahan nods. “It’s uh, actually, it’s suggested if you’re staying over,” she smiles. “Has uhm, your friend seen your true form before this?”

Crowley winces at that, rolling his shoulders. “No,” he grouses, dinging his canteen against the couch cushion between his legs.

“Well, we usually suggest that you get the first time out of the way beforehand. You’re going to be anxious about the testing, don’t add that on top, hm?” He glares at the motherly smile she’s giving him at that.

“Right,” he sighs, running a hand deeply through his hair. “Okay, yeah, let’s do that,” he sighs.

Callahan nods, and makes some notes on her tablet. “Uh, I, when I called, I asked about, like…” he coughs at the knot of hot embarrassment pushing at his throat, “some sort of STD… test, thing.” He waves, tensely, as if he’s not really interested, hand on the back of his neck as he looks away from her.

Callahan nods a little, tapping some more at her tablet. “Yes, we can do that as well. It’s just a blood draw, not the core sampling,” she gives him a comforting smile. “We can have that done once we’re done here.”

“Right, good,” Crowley exhales softly, rubbing his neck to ease the tension there. He takes another breath, blinking a few times against the anxious tears there. “I, uh, well,” he grumbles, and plucks off his glasses and rubs at his eyes, knowing he’ll get a ‘_cried in office appointment’_ note added to his ledger, but too bad. “My friend is… worried? That we’ll hurt each other, with,” he grumbles, rolling his wrist around as if he could just fast forward this whole process, communicate this particular bit without actually having to say what he’s trying to say.

“With what?” she asks, setting her tablet aside again and leaning forward. She cleans her monocle as he takes a few breaths.

“Uh, the whole, angel… demon, thing,” he manages, staring very pointedly at her feet, ticking his eyes up to hers occasionally, hoping that it’s obvious that the STD test and the _friend_ in question were connected.

Callahan tilts her head, hand slowing where she’s wiping the lens of her monocle. She’s not dumb, certainly, and she’s heard about the averted apocalypse, and Crowley and Aziraphale’s parts in that entire charade. She and many others working in Limbo are pretty familiar with their “working relationship” too, including the idle banter and poorly disguised flirting that’s amped up through the years, fond looks snuck in when they’re sure the other’s not looking. The thing is that everyone had already kind of assumed that the relationship had, hm, already _gone there_.

She considers the demon, nervously rubbing his neck and not really meeting her eyes. “In my experience, no? So long as everything’s consensual, and the like,” she nods.

“Okay,” Crowley shivers a little, taking another deep breath. “Okay, good,” he smooths his hair back, sighing. He’s silent for a bit after that, taking deep breaths to calm himself, and Callahan gives him the space to relax a little.

“So, is there anything else you’d like to go over, Crowley?” she asks, tapping her stylus against the top of her tablet.

“Uhm,” Crowley shifts his shoulders, watching her type for a moment. “I, uh, I also had, like, three molts, right in a row, this week,” he sighs.

Her eyebrow quirks at that, and she considers him. “How often do you molt usually?”

“Like once, twice a year?” he shrugs.

“Is it usually around this time of year?” she asks, tapping at the tablet again.

“Nah, usually the summer,” he sighs, and shakes his head. “Y’know, I didn’t molt this summer, huh,” he gives her a surprised look, tapping his chin.

“Has anything stressful been going on in the last week?” she asks, considering him as she resettles the monocle on her face.

He rolls his eyes and sighs deeply, dropping his head into his hands, “_Yes_.”

“Well,” she chuckles a little at that. “It’s common for demons to molt or shed more when they’re stressed. May I take a look?”

“Oh,” he starts a little at that. “Uh, sure.” She waves a hand and a small examination table pops out of nowhere in between them. He gets up, stretching out his limbs a little, and then stuffs himself onto the table. He hooks a foot up on his knee, undoing his shoelace and tugging off his shoe and sock. It’s the worse of the two, the one he had to crack the claws off of and the claws that are there now are oddly hooked thanks to it. She snaps gloves onto her hands, considering his foot.

“The other foot too, right? And I think,” she checks her tablet, “You also have a span on your back right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he sniffs and nods. He pulls his other foot up, taking off the shoe and sock, and pauses. “Can we just do the feet first? ‘S a little chilly,” he wiggles his toes and she chuckles.

“Sure,” she nods. “I’m going to touch, okay?” she asks. He nods, and she leans down, hands delicately going over the better foot first. She thumbs around his ankle, plucking up a dulled blue-gray scale from around his achilles tendon. She runs her fingers over the top of his feet and peers between his toes, and then holds his other foot in her other hand, comparing the claws between the two of them.

“What happened here?” she asks, pointing at the two claws with oddly notched marks in them.

“I uh, they were… the second molt wasn’t fully set, I guess,” he shrugs. “They weren’t fully connected, so I had to take them off.” She nods a little at that, delicately pressing up on the claw from below. It’s stiff, as it should be, and resists her efforts. She considers the rest of that foot, rubbing at a newly scarred spot on his ankle where he’d had a number of scales dig in and serrate back and forth when he ran.

“What happened here?” she asks, looking up at him.

“Uh,” he sighs. “I was running away from a hellhound,” he shrugs, looking away from the concerned look she gives him at that. “Guess I started molting as I was running and the scales got stuck in my socks.”

She stands up at that, and motions for him to put his socks and shoes back on. “It looks fine, for now. The scales are firm, not picking up. Skin’s not pink,” she shrugs. “Let’s see your back,” she motions for him to turn around. He huffs, tugging off his coat and then his sweater.

“It’s just the ones, uh, here,” he points at the diamond-shaped span that sits on his lower back. He’s a bit scaled over his shoulders and chest at the moment with the anxiety he’s been suppressing badly.

“Hmm,” he feels her tug off a few scales, and then rub a hand over the scales the wrong way, making him wince. “This one doesn’t always molt, huh?”

“Nah,” he sighs. “Maybe once every couple of years.”

“It’s molted three times too?” she asks, delicately pressing against the flesh around the scales, making him hiss at her cool fingers.

“No, no, just the once,” he sighs, shivering a little at the cold.

“It’s a little pink and inflamed,” she tells him, handing him back his sweater. “I’d suggest a hot compress and some lotion,” she offers him the jacket next. “And perhaps, see if you can encounter fewer hellhounds?” she smirks a little at him.

“Yeah,” he laughs, tugging his sweater down. “Yeah, I’ll have to see what I can do about that.”

She takes a few more diagnostics, checking his eyes and lungs, and gives him a few pamphlets on mindfulness and breathing considering the anxiety he’s exhibiting.

“Someone will be in to take your blood,” she tells him. “Be sure to make your appointments before you leave.”

He nods a little, and exhales deeply as he’s finally in the room by himself. He takes a few quick breaths, suppressing full body shivers.

He starts, just a little, when the door opens again and a different nurse steps in, heavily clothed in something like an abaya. He has to wriggle out of his sweater and jacket again so that she can reach his inner arm to draw blood. She also takes a few swabs from the inside of his cheek with something a little painful, like a cotton swab with a blade on one end.

She points him to the exit as she leaves, and he feels a little wobbly as he saunters down the hallway. He pushes into the waiting room, and has to run for the bathroom, hand to his mouth, as everything swims terribly around him. The bathrooms are completely from whatever space you’re currently linked with considering that most occult entities don’t need them, so Crowley finds himself lurching into the women’s bathroom of some place fairly busy, busting into a stall to vomit and sputter. He grunts and jerks, startled, as someone pulls his hair back from his face helpfully.

“Morning sickness, eh?” a black woman smiles down at him, kindly. “’Cept it’s not morning,” she chuckles. “Oh dear, it gets better, it’s hardest in the beginning,” she rubs his back as he coughs into the toilet, taking slow, deep breaths and not appreciating the ammonia smell this close up at all.

“Thanks,” he manages softly, hoping that his long hair and well, somewhat neutral attire, don’t suddenly out him. Women’s bathrooms were generally a little better, but there’s exceptions to every rule.

“Don’t worry about it honey,” she pats his back and stands up. He hears her and another woman talking idly, something mentioned about _lovely red hair_. He uncoils himself from the toilet once he feels like he can stand, and stumbles over to the sink. A woman two sinks down is fluffing her hair and considering her makeup in the mirror. He carefully leans forward, washing his mouth out a little, and does his best to take up a small amount of space, hoping they won’t hustle him with gender issues right now. He gives another woman a timid smile as he pushes out of the bathroom, and she smiles politely back at him.

He steps out into the waiting room, and everything swims dizzyingly for a moment. There are too many people here, perhaps twelve, and the space is really and truly struggling to juggle them all. He slowly steps down the hall, hand on the wall, swallowing rapidly against the hot saliva swamping his mouth. He fills his canteen at the water fountain awkwardly, and drinks deeply from it, wishing he had a mint or something to banish the taste in his mouth.

“Are you alright?” he jumps, and bonks his teeth hard against the metal of his canteen, swearing. “Oh-oh,” a man catches his shoulder, easing him down so that he can look at his mouth. “You’re not bleeding, good,” he sighs, rubbing Crowley’s upper arm. “Do you have a reaction to having your blood drawn?” he asks, quirking his head.

“No,” Crowley gripes, leaning hard against the wall, and sighing as one of the twelve people walks around somewhere, shifting things. “Just the uh,” he waves towards the waiting room, “enchantment ya guys got.”

The young man peers at the waiting room curiously. Crowley’s leaning against the wall, eyes closed, and he hisses as a _thirteenth_ person enters the waiting room, so he doesn’t notice the young man tapping something into what looks like a beeper.

“Crowley?” Callahan calls, startling him as she stalks down the hall to him. “What’s wrong?” He winces, wiggling his shoulders as the thirteenth person sits. The twelfth is still pacing and it’s making a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“The whole,” he sighs, gesturing again, “_thing_ you guys do. With the waiting room.”

She blinks at him, and then at the waiting room, deep in thought. “OH!” she bops her head. “Oh, you’re, oh I see,” she nods. “Goodness, there’s not many of you left,” she shakes her head, and Crowley frowns at her, “I suppose that’s good to know, in case the charm ever breaks.”

“What?” he relaxes slightly as the number of people drops to eleven, ooh, _ten_.

“I can’t remember the name of you guys, but you’re sensitive to space and time magic, huh?” she takes his canteen from him and unscrews it, offering it to him as he swallows rapidly, pinned to the wall by his own discomfort.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, taking the canteen. “Not so loud,” he hisses, and tilts his head back, drinking deeply and managing to slop a little water down his neck. He exhales softly, and rolls his head a bit.

“Think I can handle ten,” he grimaces at her and the boy who’s still there, standing awkwardly to the side of them, freezes at that.

“You can’t see them, right?” Callahan smiles a little stiffly, grabbing the nurse’s shoulder tightly before he can run off and create trouble.

“Nah,” Crowley waves a hand. “Just feel the magic, ‘s all.”

She gives the nurse a quirked eyebrow, quelling. “We’ll have to consider busy-times for your next appointments,” she nods at him.

“Yeah, I guess,” he huffs tightly. “Thanks,” he tips his canteen towards her, and walks stiffly to the waiting room. He flops into one of the foamy waiting chairs, and leans back, staring at the ceiling and feeling very tired and aching for home. He dozes fitfully for a half-hour waiting for Aziraphale, and jerks awake as the room begins cartwheeling as it struggles to figure out how to handle Crowley and Aziraphale being in a room together, while not interacting with any of the other beings in the room.

Aziraphale gives him a pitying look, limping towards him. “You look terrible, dear.” He wants to caress his cheek, or hug him, but he holds himself back, fingers crimping around the handles of his bag tightly.

“Thanks,” Crowley chuckles darkly, pushing himself up with a huff. “C’mon,” he puts an arm around the angel, supporting him as they make their way to the clerks. They almost veer to a third, different clerk, but the first one flags them down. “I’ll take ‘em, Celeste, don’t worry,” he waves, smiling at the third clerk.

“So, core sample appointment, right?” he asks. Aziraphale looks a little startled at that, sharply looking between Crowley and the clerk.

“Y-yes,” he manages. “Right, dear?”

“Yeah,” Crowley rubs his face, sniffing.

“We could do tomorrow, 10 am?” he asks, and they both wince at that. “Mm, no, okay, let’s see,” he scrolls and clicks around. “Earliest I’ve got is Tuesday, the twenty-second. You guys want afternoon, right?” They both nod in unison, looking ragged. “2 pm good again?”

“Sure,” Crowley shrugs.

“Alright, you’ll get another confirmation in the mail, but yeah, with that I think you’re both done,” he smiles at them. “Good job!” he grins, trying to bolster the exhausted looking pair.

“Thanks?” Aziraphale frowns in confusion at him.

“The results of your tests will probably be in within the week, too,” he nods.

“Cool,” Crowley sighs. “C’mon angel,” he puts an arm around his back and they walk out of the waiting room slowly, and Crowley heaves a relieved exhale as they make it to the parking lot, away from the waiting room spell. It’s still pouring out in the parking lot and Aziraphale takes a moment to shuffle around in his bag before withdrawing the umbrella, so they get a bit spattered under the awning.

They both keep glancing at each other, wanting to talk about their appointments, but it’s not particularly safe to talk in Limbo’s parking lot. They walk back to the Bentley, huddled together under the umbrella, and Crowley yanks the door open hard, falling into his seat roughly and slamming the door shut. The Bentley snarls a loud flare of feedback at him for that, and he hisses. “Sorry, sorry,” he pats the dashboard, and the blaupunkt warbles a little grumpily at him. Aziraphale chuckles at them both as he settles in, looking oddly fond.

Crowley pushes back his hair, damp with rain, and sighs. “Yours or mine?” he asks, because he’s tired, and once he settles somewhere, he’s probably not moving until the recital tomorrow.

“Yours,” Aziraphale shrugs, and Crowley pulls out of the parking lot after a moment. They both go very still as a minivan full of minor angels drives past them, loudly singing along to the _Sound of Music_. Crowley inhales deeply, barely suppressing a smirk, and as they turn out of the parking lot, Aziraphale starts helplessly giggling.

“Oh, dear…” he wipes his eyes. “Hm, shall we listen to something?” he waves, and the Bentley agrees, attempting to play a little Tchaikovsky as it’s something that Aziraphale has huffed about once or twice in the car as Crowley chuckles and shakes his head at him. It’s punctuated a little by choral swells which are easily recognizable from bits of _Bohemian Rhapsody _though. Neither the angel nor demon comment.

Crowley pulls them out of Limbo, and down the country roads, maintaining a relatively sane pace because he’s dissociating again, not really focusing on the here and now, just drifting. Aziraphale is a bit dumbfounded, and has to suppress a few amazed, “Are you alright, dear?”’s as it’s rather obvious that Crowley is not entirely alright. He’s awkwardly pinned himself in his seat, fingers playing over his lips as he drives with one hand. He’s deceptively calm other than an idle tremor in his left leg and occasional tapping of his fingers on the wheel.

“Oh, we should get something to eat!” Aziraphale grins as they pass a patisserie he’s been meaning to return to on the edge of London, delighted by the fact that they’re driving slow enough that he can actually appreciate the local scenery.

“No,” Crowley grunts, eyes still on the road. After a few more blocks, his eyes tick over to the angel and he drums his fingers on his lips. “We can order something,” he offers quietly, watching the angel as he turns down a side street.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale pats his knee, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his knee for a while after, sluggishly processing.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale offers, withdrawing his hand and nervously toying with the handle of his bag in his lap. Crowley pulls into the garage, easily sliding into the cramped space as if he does it all the time (he doesn’t). As the Bentley’s engine ticks, they sit in silence for a moment, Aziraphale’s eyes repeatedly darting over the demon.

Crowley suddenly takes in a tight inhale and yanks himself out of the car, stalking out of the cramped dimness very quickly.

Crowley’s neighbor is accepting a package delivery which appears to be several boxes of colorful pool noodles, and she gives him an embarrassed smile. He nods at her, unseeing, and whips out a set of keys that he hardly ever uses, slotting the one he’s wrapped in a bright red key hugger into the lock. He pauses at the door, waiting for the angel to get to him, and lets him enter first, toying with his phone.

Aziraphale smiles politely at him, dropping his bag on the table and shrugging out of his coat. Crowley pops the phone to his ear for a moment, talking too quietly for the angel to hear and squinting out the large windows in the hall. After a moment, Crowley tucks his phone back into his pocket, and hesitates on the threshold.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, worried at the utter stillness of the demon standing there. Crowley’s trying to figure out how he’s going to hold it together enough to grit a smile at a delivery person if he steps into his flat, because he’s probably going to end up curled up in a corner, rocking and hugging his head for a while. Or, he might just end up staring at the wall for a day. He’s not really sure.

“Crowley, dear, come in,” Aziraphale startles him, touching him ever so lightly, a finger on his covered wrist and two on his far shoulder as he guides him into his flat. He’s trembling badly as Aziraphale steps behind him, closing his door.

“Shall I take your coat?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley whips around, panting at having someone behind him. He winces, rubbing his arm where the tape and cotton from the blood draw are beginning to pinch uncomfortably. “Come on, dear, we should get you into something more comfortable. Would you like to shower, perhaps?”

“Uh,” Crowley sniffs, and shakes his head no, rubbing his arm still. He kicks off his shoes after a moment of them staring at one another, and Aziraphale takes a few steps around him into his kitchen.

“C’mon dear,” Aziraphale calls, setting his bag on Crowley’s coffee table, and sighing as he settles into his couch.

“Mmhmm,” Crowley mumbles, walking towards him and then standing over him awkwardly for a moment.

“Sit,” Aziraphale motions next to him, and Crowley shivers. “Do you want me to tug you down here?”

Crowley jerkily sits next to him at that, vibrating. He watches as Aziraphale undoes his shirtsleeve and rolls it back slowly, exposing a white cotton ball taped down just like the one on his arm. He plucks off the tape, wincing, and examines the red mark left behind. He pulls out a small bandage from his bag, and smooths it on after a moment. Crowley, jittering, tugs off his leather jacket and pulls his sweater up, tugging his arm out to do the same thing.

“Oof, I suppose you should wear something a little easier to get around next time,” Aziraphale chuckles, and Crowley manages a twitch of a smile as he plucks off his own tape and motions for the angel to give him a bandage. He presses it on, and tilts his head, grimacing a little as he presses into the needle wound with his thumb, the pain interesting him a little. Aziraphale puts a hand over his, delicately drawing it away from the spot and kissing the knuckles with a soft smile.

“I can see why you don’t like it there,” he sighs and pinches his index finger between his own, rolling it to and fro, easing the claw back into a nail.

“Yeah,” Crowley manages roughly, stretching his fingers out of the angel’s grasp. Aziraphale watches him stretch his hand this way and that for a moment like the skin of his hands doesn’t quite fit right and he’s trying to resettle it. The doorbell rings as Crowley begins idly shaking his wrist, looking disgruntled. He gets up and walks stiffly to the door, stuffing his arm back in his sweater as he goes. He gives a grimacing smile to the delivery person, and signs with a finger on the electric pad.

He delicately sets the bags on the coffee table, not moving to open them himself. “You wanted sweets, right?” he coughs a little.

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, poking into the bag. It’s not from the patisserie that they’d passed, but one that Crowley knew Aziraphale was incredibly fond of. It should be too late to get a box of croissants, one savory sandwich and several plain and sweet ones, as well as two small boxes of macarons and a pie of the day in a big box at the bottom. Crowley pushes his expectations on the world, and it delivers, sometimes. Aziraphale grins at him fondly, and softly pecks him on the cheek again.

_Could get used to that_, he smiles bashfully at the angel, blushing.

Aziraphale pulls out the sandwich first, and Crowley produces a square black plate for him from his cupboard with a cloth napkin as Aziraphale looks a little lost, holding papery crumbs of croissant in one hand from his first bite. Crowley leans on his shoulder as he eats, breathing and relaxing a little, and Aziraphale lightly taps his knee a few times as he moves from one bit to the next. He eats three croissants and quite a few macarons before setting the crumbed plate and napkin aside.

“Thank you dear,” he smiles, and Crowley chuckles a little as he hugs his shoulders.

Aziraphale peers at him curiously. He’s still a little wan and distant.

“Did you know that more angels have fallen since, uhm,” Aziraphale gestures.

Crowley shrugs in response. “They told me a couple of demons ascended too.”

“Really?” Aziraphale starts at that, smiling softly, and Crowley glowers a little at his response. “Well, I, uhm, sorry,” he laughs a little, embarrassed by his enthusiasm. He’d spent rather a lot of time hoping that, perhaps, Crowley might saunter back up as easily as he had slipped down, but the demon was pretty adamant about staying where he was.

“Like I’d want to be rubbing shoulders with _Gabriel_,” he grouses, “Can’t imagine.”

Aziraphale laughs a little anxiously, eyes darting around Crowley’s living room for something else to divert his attention. They’re silent for a moment, Crowley lost in the sensation of Aziraphale's coat on his fingers, spacing out, and Aziraphale watching him.

“You’re, uh, you’re okay with the sample test, right?” Aziraphale asks, hand on Crowley’s knee, thumb rocking back and forth.

Crowley shrugs, “Sure.” Aziraphale frowns at him. “Suppose we should do a little show-and-tell then,” Crowley sighs, looking up at his ceiling.

“Of course… but, not tonight,” he pats Crowley’s knee. “Or tomorrow, I suppose,” he frowns.

“We’ve got time,” Crowley sighs, pushing himself up. “You want to cut into this?” he asks, pulling the pie of the day, a pear crumble, out from the bag.

“Oh, sure,” Aziraphale nods enthusiastically, and Crowley walks over to his countertop and pulls out a long, sharp knife. He grins saucily at Aziraphale as he wastes the edge of it cutting the tape off to open it, and Aziraphale chuckles at the show. He trims out a thick slice for the angel, slotting it onto a clean plate with a silver fork set in front of him. He sits on a chair, leaning his head on his hand, and watching as Aziraphale delicately cuts through the slivers of pear, down through the crust, and hums happily as he chews.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Aziraphale pats his lips, “what’s your shop going to be?”

Crowley chuckles a little, looking away. “Oh, I was thinking about a little bookstore, y’know,” he almost manages to maintain a straight face, but loses it at as he returns his gaze to Aziraphale’s artfully still face.

“Oh really?” Aziraphale cuts out another bite a little forcefully.

“No, no, I’m joking,” Crowley chuckles. “I was gonna set up a nursery,” he shrugs. Aziraphale turns his head around to peer at his greenhouse, nodding appreciatively and chewing.

“Yeah, been getting a bit tight in there, and,” he rolls his hand a little, “y’know, with recent events.”

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale nods, trimming off an edge of the back crust. Crowley gets up to pull down some wine, idly considering one or two bottles before settling on a robust red. He uncorks it, pouring out two glasses, and toasts, “We made it, eh?”

“We did,” Aziraphale nods, tinking their glasses together.

They settle on the couch, Crowley changing into his pajama bottoms, silvery socks and a plush crimson cashmere sweater to watch some nature documentary. It’s something easy and not-too-stimulating that they can talk over and leave on in the background. Crowley tugs a hot water bottle behind him a little irritably. 

“Oh, you know, that reminds me,” Aziraphale reaches over to adjust it for him, socketing it into the small of his back. “They gave me a pelvic exam today.” Crowley peers at the angel, curious where in the world he’s going with this. “With the war injury,” he gestures, quelling Crowley’s consternated look. Crowley frowns, but nods, sipping his wine and watching as two men in orange hard-hats completely miss the fact that the bats that they’re hunting for are _right there_, behind them in the darkness.

“Yeah?” Crowley offers, as Aziraphale fusses with his own clothing, tucking himself into something sort of like lounge-wear, a heavy, tartan jumper with a collared shirt under it and old, worn slacks in a warm brown. He waves and pulls a quilt out of nowhere, heavy squares in alternating navy, dark green, and white. He tucks it around himself, sitting cross-legged, until Crowley sneaks over and steals a corner of it, sidling in closer to the angel. Aziraphale chuckles a little, but draws the quilt up to let Crowley in.

“Very invasive,” he shakes his head, and Crowley pauses for a moment, trying to discern if Aziraphale is referring to him nestled against him or something else. “Oh! No—not you, the exam,” he pats Crowley’s arm. Crowley nods, picking his glass back up from the table and squirming a little to get comfortable. “They’re going to give me some sort of… cream? I guess, to help, when my hip flares up,” he gestures.

“Good?” Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale huffs at him.

“Did they, uhm, say anything about your, hm, scales?” he motions at the hot water bottle tucked behind the demon.

“Oh,” Crowley looks back, and shrugs again. “I forgot, I didn’t molt this summer, so I guess I was overdue,” he sips at his wine. “My feet are fine, supposed to go easy on the spot on my back.”

“Ah, good,” Aziraphale tucks his left arm around the demon’s shoulder, drawing him a little closer. Crowley lets him, smiling a little to himself.

“Supposed to avoid hellhounds,” he smirks up at the angel from the shoulder where he’s leaned his head down.

“Yes, I do think that’s a good idea,” Aziraphale nods, chuckling a little into his glass.

* * *

Crowley waves off the documentary after a while, and they end up draped on one another and dozing after just one glass of wine each. To be fair, they’ve both had a few rough days. Crowley ends up overheating after a bit, stickily slipping out from under the quilt, the angel, and the hot water bottle, and takes a quick shower.

“Shall I just stay over again?” Aziraphale asks, draped on his bedroom doorway, startling him as he dries his hair with a towel in just briefs. Crowley gulps a little as Aziraphale’s eyes dozily walk him up and down, smiling appreciatively.

“If you like,” Crowley slips the worn band shirt over his head and saunters to bed, throwing back the covers and slotting himself in them. “Make sure I wake up for Warlock’s thing,” he rolls a shrug, and pats the bed next to him.

“Of course,” Aziraphale nods, and walks to the bed, tugging off his heavy sweater and old slacks, setting them on the throne that’s still in his room. Crowley stares, piercingly, at his ceiling as the angel tugs back the covers and slips in next to him. _Easy, easy._

Aziraphale turns towards him, nestling the covers under his chin and looking frankly adorable. “Alright?” he asks, smiling.

“Y-yeah,” Crowley nods, and works on making himself a little more comfortable. He should be anxious, terrified that he’ll do something untoward or gross, but he’s too tired with his fitful sleep schedule lately, so he just wiggles into a comfortable position, and slowly drifts to sleep.

* * *

Aziraphale lets him sleep in, idly flipping through a magazine he’d picked up when he went out for breakfast. He’s considering an older Nokia brick-phone printed large on one page, being used to poke fun at “old” cell phones in one of the articles, with a bit of interest when practically every electronic thing in the flat suddenly start beeping. Aziraphale jumps so hard that he tosses his cocoa up at the ceiling, and has to catch his mug with a miracle before it can shatter on the countertop.

He’s sopping up his cocoa with a rag, looking increasingly worried at the cacophonous beeping, when he hears Crowley shout something unintelligible from the other room, and the beeping stops. The demon appears from his room jerkily as if someone just thrust him there from stage left, rubbing his eyes and looking bedraggled.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and rubs his face hard with his hands. “Forgot to turn my alarms off,” he sniffs.

“Ah,” Aziraphale states, taking a deep breath to shake off the start he’s just been given. He squints a little at his pocketwatch which declares that it’s a few minutes after noon. “I was going to let you sleep in until two,” Aziraphale offers, although he probably would’ve actually started poking in on the demon around 12:30, unable to help himself.

Crowley makes a disinterested noise and saunters back into his bedroom for a second, and then comes out properly clad from the waist down in loose pants and socks. He lumbers into the kitchen, peering into his fridge with a look of disgruntlement. He’s out of bread, and down on many staples. He’s honestly been miracling his soaps and shampoos a smidge above empty for the past few weeks, avoiding going out, and he hasn’t been eating much to boot.

“We could go out for lunch?” Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him.

He shuts his refrigerator with a grunt, and nods. “Yeah, okay,” he winces at his arm as he draws it down. He can _feel_ his veins down his arm and into his hand thanks to the stupid blood draw.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks, but Crowley just shrugs and walks off to his room again. Aziraphale idly flips through the magazine a bit more, peering at the cocoa-stained typeface with his reading glasses on. Crowley emerges from his room, hair tucked back in a claw and wearing one of his more ubiquitous winter uniforms: a dark navy lined jacket that makes him look very top heavy and puffy on top of a thin, nondescript black shirt, black pants, and his old silver scarf tucked into the mix again.

Aziraphale collects his bag and soiled magazine and follows him out to the car. Crowley comes to a forceful halt in front of the garage, grimacing at the fact that he actually _parked in the garage_. He hates the garage, it’s hard to get in and out of, and it’s dark and tight and…

“I didn’t even know you had a garage,” Aziraphale states, considering the dark rectangle that Crowley’s scowling into. He waves his hand to light the space up, incredibly bright.

“Yeah, thanks,” Crowley grouses, grumpy that he was too busy being fussy to make his own damn light. They pop into the Bentley, and Crowley struggles with backing out, definitely bonking the edges a few times but the dents don’t hold because he won’t let them. He lets Aziraphale choose the location, so it ends up being a nondescript diner where Crowley sips mediocre coffee and eats a few omelets while Aziraphale chatters with the waitress over pancakes.

“I should stop by the shops,” he grumbles, eying the grocery across from the diner as they leave.

“Oh?” Aziraphale is interested, because of course he is. _Frustrating_. Crowley had been hoping he might be able to drop him off by the bookstore, do some shopping, maybe scream into the void for a bit, then pick up the angel and go stop by the recital. No such luck today.

“I, uh, you don’t have to come,” he shrugs a little, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

“Please, it’s no bother, my hip’s actually feeling much better today,” he smiles. Certain other bits of his anatomy will probably continue to feel violated for a few days more, but it’s not impeding his walking around and enjoying Crowley’s glum, sleepy company.

“Ah,” Crowley nods, and pops into the Bentley to take them closer into the parking lot. He picks up more makings for bread, a few fish steaks that pique his interest, and lingers in the toiletries, grimacing at the lack of not-appalling scents.

“Oh, do you shave?” Aziraphale asks, surprised, plucking up the baby blue and pink shaving gel he’s tucked in the basket under his arm.

“Occasionally,” he shrugs, “Probably like you have to.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods, “Yes, true.”

“My last one of these went bad, exploded in the cupboard or something so,” he stretches up to pull down a three-for-one bulk size of shimmery orange-flavored bodywash and tucks it in the basket. “Just replacing it.”

Aziraphale’s plucked a few things from the shelves as well in his own basket: a set of cinnamon rolls, some Christmas-themed foil to wrap the rubber plant’s pot in, a packet of cleaning sponges, and a box of jaffa cakes, shiftily tucked under the other bits as if he doesn’t want Crowley to see them.

“You, uh, you seemed to like these?” Aziraphale taps him on the wrist and points out the Herbal Essence, and Crowley chuckles.

“This may come as a surprise,” Crowley starts, sneering sarcastically and plucking down a supposedly ‘sensitive-skin, unscented’ pink-colored shampoo and popping it open to sniff. “But I’m particular about smell, as well,” he grimaces at the pink shampoo which is most certainly a bright, sharp strawberry and not unscented in the slightest. Aziraphale tugs it away from him before he can stuff it back willy-nilly onto the shelf, and sniffs it himself, making an interested noise. He stuffs it in his basket, not entirely surreptitiously, and Crowley chuckles under his breath again. He ends up choosing a few brands which are advertising more that they cater to hair types than specific scents, and they meander towards the registers, picking up random things here and there as they go.

They pay for their baskets separately until Aziraphale suddenly leans in close to Crowley as he’s counting out the bills for his payment. Crowley quirks an eyebrow at him, “What’s up, angel?” He hands the cashier the bills and coins, and as he stuffs his wallet back into his pocket, Aziraphale grips his wrist firmly and Crowley stiffens as the angel blazes a terribly protective spell around him. Aziraphale drops his hand for just a moment, and Crowley exhales sharply shaking himself as the spell relaxes, but Aziraphale just smiles, offering a card to the cashier and motioning towards his basket.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, eyes flicking between them, “Didn’t realize you two were together.”

“Ah, we’re uh,” Crowley starts, but before he can finish, Aziraphale’s knit their fingers together and Crowley’s wrapped in a giant, glowing white net which practically screams “Do not touch, property of Aziraphale.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale smiles at her, and takes both Crowley’s bag and his own in hand, leading the stiff demon out to the parking lot.

“Angel,” Crowley manages as Aziraphale pauses, looking both ways before crossing into the parking lot towards the Bentley.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale says tightly, quelling him as he powerwalks the demon towards the Bentley. “In,” he opens the passenger side of the Bentley and practically shoves Crowley into it. He clamors in after him, forcing Crowley to slide over to his seat, shaking his hand and wincing.

“What was that about?” he grits, stretching his knuckles and wiggling his fingers.

“_Drive_,” Aziraphale growls, gripping the ceiling in preparation for high speeds. Something’s spooked him that Crowley didn’t notice, so he shrugs and guns the Bentley and careens out of the suburbs, back towards London proper, mindlessly heading towards the bookstore as he tends to when jangled a bit. He parks in the normal spot, quirking an eyebrow at the angel as if to say, “Should I park farther away or what?”

Aziraphale lets himself out and walks quickly over to Crowley’s side, offering his hand with an odd smile on his face, the uncomfortable, anxious one he gives archangels when he’s forced to entertain. Crowley takes his hand, wincing as the spell spools out on him again, and they walk across the street into the bookstore. Aziraphale doesn’t release him until he’s tightly locked the second set of doors.

“Explain,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his hand to ease the nerves jangled by harsh, quick and anxiously drawn spellwork. “Please,” he offers, as Aziraphale turns around and looks around the shop with anxiety penciled in his brows.

“There was an… angel, I recognized at the store,” he sighs, tightly, picking through the bags to hand Crowley his. “Sorry, I didn’t want them to try something,” he sighs, handing Crowley his bag.

Crowley squints at him, “You might’ve said something.”

Crowley’s eyes stray towards the rubber plant which is very happy to see him, glittering its garlands at him. He smiles a little, walking over to pet it idly and ensure the garlands aren’t causing spots or anything. “They might’ve gone after you, too,” he pours some water into the pot, and fondly thumbs the edge of it.

“Ah, right,” Aziraphale nods, sharply. “Sorry, I… didn’t think,” he sighs deeply, and rubs a hand on his forehead back through his hair.

Aziraphale didn’t really consider his own safety because his own wasn’t really at risk in regards to angelic or hellish agents, in his mind. Not because of what Crowley had presumed (hellish incompetence) but because Gabriel had sent out a memo excising him from the angelic hierarchy. He was completely shut out, not wanted, and thus, not to be interacted with, attacked, or anything else, unless absolutely necessary, and _please_ get approval from at least three signers, in triplicate, if you need to route through that “absolutely necessary” clause. If Aziraphale was to run into any of the particular archangels from his hearing on a street corner one day, they might give each other grimacing smiles of _I’d like to see you dead_, but there would be no brandishing of weapons. They were leaving him alone to rot, in their minds. He was perfectly fine with that, but a little nettled about the fact that hell was apparently not quite so sanguine in relation to Crowley.

“I suppose you’ll want to come with me back to the flat, then, huh?” Crowley sighs.

Aziraphale gives him a grim nod, and turns to the back of the shop, tossing his purchases around appropriately and changing his clothes to something that will be more appropriate for the oncoming recital. Crowley sniffs a little, eying him up in his blue suit, varying in shades from navy into a pale sky blue on his dress shirt. Aziraphale blushes a little, toying with his bow tie and ducking his head at the unexpected attention.

“You look nice,” Crowley smiles, gently readjusting a few curls mussed by the changing of clothes. He tilts the angel’s chin up, peering into his soft blue-gray eyes, tugged bluer with the suit. “Brings out your eyes,” he says softly, smiling, and Aziraphale blushes deeper, and nearly ducks his head in embarrassment again before realizing he can just kiss him, so he delicately steps up to kiss Crowley on the lips.

“I like it when you wear heels,” he whispers into Crowley’s ear as he gently tugs the demon’s coat straight on his shoulders.

“They’re just boots, actually,” Crowley chuckles, lightly parrying the angel’s hands from where they were heading to dig deeper into his jacket around the back to probably try to dip down and grope into his back pockets.

“Right,” Aziraphale nods, looking away and rubbing his nose, blushing so hard that he’s vibrating. “Yes, let’s um, let’s go drop off your stuff,” he motions at the bag in Crowley’s hand. Crowley smirks, but turns around, waving to unlock the doors that the angel just locked so carefully and stomps back out to the Bentley.

He parks on the street outside of his condo and walks up to his flat as Aziraphale ducks around, suspiciously considering all the corners and edges of the premises as if he’s interrogating a crime scene. He eventually lets himself in a few minutes later as Crowley shelves the bread flour and yeast away in his cupboards.

“I think it’s just when we go to places, like, outside of the norm,” Crowley calls, a bit loud because he’s expecting Aziraphale to dally near the entrance, but he’s sidled up across from him at the counter. Crowley jumps as he notices.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale sighs, “And you’ve got protections on the Bentley, too.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, and lugs the plastic bag back to his bathroom, already ripping the cardboard packaging off of the multi-pack of bodywash. He’s a little disgruntled to find that the special third bottle in the pack is noticeably smaller than the other two. It’s not one of his ideas, but disguising bad deals with too-much-information is a pretty good dastardly deed in his book.

“I haven’t really added anything to it since the apocalypse, though,” he grunts as he puts things away under the sink. “It’s…” he sighs, rubbing hair out of his face. “The Bentley’s a little different since Adam reset things,” he winces a little at the angel, feeling like he’s acting like a conspiracy theorist.

Aziraphale tilts his head at him, considering. “The shop was too,” he crosses his arms on his chest and leans on the doorway. “I didn’t notice it until you pointed it out, but it was embroidering on my work,” he waves.

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Crowley sighs, popping himself upright and motioning for the angel to move from the doorway, “I guess I can try adding a little more, but like, I feel like I gotta ask permission now."

“Well, the shop was very happy to do whatever I asked it to do,” he shrugs. Crowley squints at him, thinking, _Ah, so that’s why the shop changed up so fast_. “I think it’s like quenching a sword, but in this case, I suppose they were both quenched in their own… demise which is a bit grim,” Aziraphale drums his fingers on his chin, looking puzzled and a bit worried by this train of thought.

“Oh,” Crowley rubs his lips, considering. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” he sighs, sitting on his bed and leaning down to unlace his boots. “Ugh, just something else to take care of,” he tosses the boot towards the closet, startling Aziraphale enough to jump away even though he wasn’t near the flightpath.

“Well, I mean, it wants to take care of you, dear,” Aziraphale taps a foot, flustered, and pulls out his pocket watch.

“Time to get a ‘wiggle on?’” Crowley sneers, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

“We have a few hours, still,” he waves. Crowley lays back on his bed and sighs. Aziraphale primly picks around the tossed clothes and sits on the throne, watching him.

“Should get you a better chair,” Crowley sighs, and Aziraphale frowns at him. “No, no, like I’ve gotta make one or something,” he wiggles his fingers, and grimaces at his nails. He gets up and pulls out some supplies from his bathroom cupboards, and settles on his toilet to begin removing his old, chipped coat and repaint it. Aziraphale follows him in, curiously.

“Do you think you could do mine, sometime?” Aziraphale asks, peering down at his own bitten nails.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a manicurist,” Crowley chuckles, pulling an acetone covered swab over each nail with a bit of pressure.

Aziraphale huffs at him, flustered. “I, well, do you have someone you’d recommend?” he tosses his head hotly, and Crowley can’t help the fond smile on his face.

“I just do ‘em myself so don’t ask me,” he shrugs, washing the acetone off. He swirls the brush in the bottle of black polish, a bit worn and well used. He has to order this polish online as it’s a single-coat black with hardly any chemical smell at all.

“What color would you want anyway?” he asks, smoothing polish over his thumbnail.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale peers at his nails, considering, “They have some nice glittery ones, don’t they?” Crowley isn’t able to mask the quick chuckle that escapes him at that. “What? It’s cute,” he huffs.

“Yes, it is,” Crowley nods, tilting his glasses down his nose to add, “Like you.”

Aziraphale burns red at that and has to walk away from the demon to collect himself for a few moments.

* * *

Crowley sits around letting his nails dry for a bit, then shoos the angel so that he can change into his outfit. He chooses an old burgundy suit with a black-and-red striped dress shirt, and twists the front bits of his hair back into messy braids that circle his head.

Aziraphale gulps audibly as he emerges, taking a startled step back. Crowley looks stunning, regal, and so far out of Aziraphale’s league that he feels well, quaint and a bit dowdy in his plain navy suit which is frankly out of date. Crowley always favors modern, usually with a few old touches like his flapper scarf. He’s clearly had this suit tailored for him, or modified it himself with a bit of magic as it dips in devilishly around his waist and flares around his hips, injecting a bit of femininity into a masculine staple.

Crowley gives him a small smile, looking like he’s standing for a fashion shoot with one hand tucked in a pocket, reviewing the polish on his other hand with a practiced coolness.

“You should probably close your mouth, angel,” he sidles up to him, delicately using his index finger to pop his chin back up. “Don’t want to catch flies,” he leers down at him over his small oval sunglasses, and Aziraphale gulps audibly.

“That’s not entirely fair,” Aziraphale whispers, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his lip where he can feel sweat beading.

Crowley gives him a playful smirk, glasses ticking down his nose as he purrs, “I’m a demon, love. We don’t play fair.”

Aziraphale makes a soft noise, flushing, and suddenly grabs Crowley by the lapels and smashes their lips together. He releases him quickly, taking a few steps away and rapidly mopping his face as he leans against Crowley’s countertop.

Crowley chuckles a little, adjusting his jacket, “Sorry, too much?”

Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair, mussing it, and shrugs his shoulders a little to readjust himself. “Nothing to be sorry about, dear,” he smiles at him, his eyes drawing up and down again, memorizing the details. Crowley walks up to him, leaving a bit of space between them just so the angel can be comfortable, but he doesn’t miss Aziraphale eying his hair with something mischievous in his eyes.

“What?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale delicately reaches a hand up, but pauses.

“May I?” he asks, and Crowley frowns a little, not understanding. He tilts his head down towards the angel, nonetheless. Aziraphale’s fingers delicately touch the messy twist he’s pulled away from his face, threading the braid in a bit of gold and creating a true crown. He pulls at Crowley’s lapels a little, adjusting what he’d mussed a minute earlier, and places a bold, gold snake pin on one of the lapels, something he’s seen Crowley wear a few times before.

Crowley pulls out a small compact mirror from a pocket, and considers the angel’s work as he looks him over appreciatively.

“You know we’re going to a recital, not the queen’s ball?” he smirks, toying with the threaded braid. Aziraphale holds his gaze, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Alright, fine,” Crowley pockets his mirror. _Two can play that game, _he smirks and steps up to the angel, gently drawing his fingertips around the edges of his earlobes, popping two pearl earrings into his ears, and then brings his palms down over his shoulders, turning the buttons of the coat pearlescent, and adding a shell pin to his lapel. “I could add something here,” he tickles his fingers by his ear, tidying where the angel keeps rucking his fingers, “but it might be too much.”

“Well, you can’t just say that and not show me, dear boy,” Aziraphale huffs, tossing his head. Crowley chuckles, and tucks a small abalone comb-barrette into the curls, adjusting it a little here or there, before stepping back and offering his compact to the angel.

Aziraphale smile quivers a little as he takes in the demon’s work, and Crowley leans forward, concerned. “Y-you can take ‘em off, it’s, I—" Aziraphale kisses him hard, beaming. “I love it,” he grins, and Crowley has to squint a little against the glow.

* * *

They leave for the recital not long after that, time having gotten a little away from them in ogling one another and shyly flirting. They stand out mostly due to the fact that they’ve chosen to wear colors instead of black or white, as most of the other parents and siblings there are from well-to-do families trying to flaunt their well-to-do children and lives. Things might not be the best at home, but out in public they would look _spotless_, thank you very much.

They idly mingle in the foyer, perusing the lineup of performers and getting sucked into small talk with some of the families. A few of them think they’re famous musicians due to their flamboyance, perhaps scouting, and amble up boldly to talk up their children. The doors open and Crowley pulls a little and turns his tire iron into a long black cane with a gold snakehead as his ankles are starting to bother him. Aziraphale titters a little anxiously, forcefully reminded that the last time he’d seen that specific cane, Crowley and he had a rather large falling out.

They find seating somewhere in the middle of the theatre, and Crowley plucks up Aziraphale’s hand in his so that he’ll stop toying and fussing with the comb in his hair.

There are about eight performers in all, each allowed to come on and run through about two or three pieces. They’re all fairly skilled considering the tutoring, but only one or two has the gift to truly pull you into the music. Warlock comes on third, and they both clap embarrassingly loudly for him as the other parents have for their children. He’s not spectacular, but he’s not the worst, and he’s clearly been practicing. Crowley ends up dozing through the last performer, someone saddled with a bunch of soporific waltzes and not much talent.

Aziraphale elbows him awake as the set ends and the houselights come up. The kids are beginning to filter out into the crowd, beaming and jittering with the adrenaline of performing. Warlock bounds up to them, hair flopping adorably, and hugs Crowley before the demon can fully exit the line of seats.

“Oof, yes, hello,” he chuckles fondly, “I’m happy to see you too.”

“I’m so glad you came,” he grins up at him.

“I wouldn’t miss it, you know that,” he tucks Warlock’s hair behind his ear, leaning a little hard on his cane.

“Ah,” Warlock turns to Aziraphale, who’s stood a little to the side, feeling left out. “Hello Mr. Cortese,” he holds out a hand for a formal handshake and purposely mispronounces ‘Cortese’ so that it sounds more like ‘Courtess.’ Crowley isn’t able to suppress a smirk at that as Aziraphale politely takes the boy’s hand and reminds him that he can call him Aziraphale and gently sounds it out for him, twice. Crowley’s gotten the feeling that Warlock doesn’t really like Aziraphale, and if he wasn’t sure before, he is now.

Thaddeus mispronounces people’s names, on accident ostensibly. He has a bold, ignorant American personality, so obviously he just misheard you. And, yes, perhaps he just misheard you the last fifteen times you explained that your name was _Robert_ not _Richard_. Look, he’s a very important man, you know, he can’t keep everyone’s names in his head all the time. Thaddeus _did_ know that the head of his security personnel was in fact named Robert Delgado, and not Richard Deltaco, but he also knew that Robert carried a flame for Harriet. If he wasn’t the best at his job, Mr. Delgado would have found himself in very hot water indeed.

Crowley has gently redirected Warlock, once or twice, as he’s stumbled ignorantly into misgendering and dead naming people. But a child’s ignorance can be corrected, and Warlock was an easy student with Crowley once he’d explained the pain such a seemingly simple thing could cause.

Warlock’s been weird with their names since they became tutors, though. Once Crowley had realized he had sight, it made a little more sense. The boy was dealing with the fact that only he seemed to be able to sense that they were the same people, frustratedly poking and squinting at what he could See and what he couldn’t see.

Aziraphale’s attempting to draw the boy in with conversation about the composers he just performed, but Warlock is starting to dim and look a little bored.

“Now, now, don’t bore him with ancient history,” Crowley gently pats Aziraphale on the shoulder, startling him.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale gives him a confused look, eyes darting around.

“Do you have a ride home?” Crowley asks as Warlock turns and waves at someone who calls his name.

“Oh, Ms. Bhattacharrya is gonna take me home,” he points and a mother in an orange shirt, one of the few flashes of color in the theatre, waves from across the line of seats.

“Good, good,” Crowley smiles. Warlock gets tugged off then, another tween plucking at his shoulder. He nips in another hug for Crowley in farewell, and with a quick nod towards Aziraphale he dashes off.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale frowns after the boy. Crowley shrugs at him, and they head out with the thinning crowd. “Did he call me… Countess?” Aziraphale asks, looking a bit dumbfounded as he goes to open the door of the Bentley.

Crowley chuckles, wincing a little as he tucks himself into his seat in the Bentley. “Cortese,” he corrects, and Aziraphale’s frown deepens.

“Did you tell him I was Mr. Cortese?” he asks, sounding a bit affronted as Crowley backs out of the parking space.

“No, no,” Crowley waves a little, jerking to a sudden stop as someone nearly backs into him. “He’s uh,” he sighs, “He’s got sight, Aziraphale.”

“What?” Aziraphale gawps.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley sighs, peering at the searing lights streaking down the road towards him, blinding him, so that he can tell when it’s safe to pull out.

“I… really?” Aziraphale huffs, and roughly grips the door as Crowley zooms out tightly in front of another car. “But… he’s American?”

Crowley scoffs at that. “We honestly don’t know which kid he was, angel,” he waves. “But really, you don’t think that _maybe_, _possibly, _some of those seers that you used to hang out with in Shropshire might have had grandchildren who, I dunno, emigrated to the US?” he scowls at the angel as they idle at a stop light.

“Uhhh,” Aziraphale looks a little bewildered at the demon’s sudden antagonism. “Uh, I suppose… that could be?” he gives him a wan smile, finally realizing that the reason he’s being needled is for stereotyping Americans yet again.

“I’ve really gotta take you back over there one of these days,” Crowley huffs, fingering his hair without thinking, “It’s not as bad as you think.”

“Look, I’m not saying that it’s _bad_ per se, it’s just changed a lot since I was there last,” he huffs.

“And when was that?” Crowley smirks.

“Oh, I don’t know, their calendars were different,” Aziraphale huffs and Crowley scoffs. “They were just cultivating cacau, if I recall,” he taps his fingers on his lips and Crowley peers at him.

“That was you?” he asks, bemused.

“I-I mean, I didn’t, I mean, they’d already started it,” he gives him a suppressing look. “I just sort of… nudged, to make sure they got things going in the right direction,” he gives him a nervous chuckle.

“Well,” Crowley smirks, “Where would we be without chocolate? Valentine’s day would be a total bust.”

Aziraphale harrumphs at that, looking flustered, “Chocolate is about a lot more than just Valentine’s day, dear boy.” Crowley gives him a loose, goading grin, and Aziraphale realizes he’s been had. He huffily looks out the window, ignoring Crowley’s small attempts at conversation for a bit until they roll into Soho proper.

Crowley slides into his spot in front of the bookshop. It’s dark, and a bit late for ordering in food or going out. “Will you come in? We could have a little nightcap,” Aziraphale gently pats Crowley’s knee, and he chuckles.

“Sure, angel.”

They meander into the bookstore, Aziraphale digging through his stores to find a proper wine for the evening. Crowley kicks off his heeled boots near the entrance to the back, cracking his back and looking around to see if there’s any other changes he should’ve noticed earlier.

“Is that your old Victrola?” he asks, surprised to see it.

“Oh yes, it just sort of… appeared,” Aziraphale shrugs, carefully, holding two glasses of cabernet. “I was sure I’d sold it or something, I haven’t seen it since the ‘60s.”

Crowley chuckles at that, shaking his head. He takes the wine from the angel as he carefully hands it over, and they delicately tink their glasses together and sip a quiet toast, “Tonight was lovely, dear.”

Crowley fingers through some records which have found themselves near the Victrola, pulling out a worn record of “pop songs” from the 30s and 40s, something which may have generated itself in Aziraphale’s shop simply because it seemed like the place for it to be rather than something he’d gone out and purchased. He delicately pops it open, perusing the thin, aged vellum for the songs they’ve chosen to press into the record, and eventually shrugs, placing it on the turntable.

“Oh, more music?” Aziraphale smiles. “Perhaps we could dance,” he chuckles, wiggling his hips idly as if they would be doing a samba to Glenn Miller.

“Well, not like that,” Crowley chuckles. It’s true that both Crowley and Aziraphale had preferred dances that they might strike out with if commanded, but they have lived on earth for 6,000 years and have learned and participated in a number of dances throughout the ages. They set aside their glasses, and easily settle into a slow waltz along with the music.

Aziraphale sighs, leaning in close and settling his head on Crowley’s shoulder, when he frowns. He pulls his hands from their proper locations, and begins gently feeling up Crowley’s flat chest. “You’re binding?” he huffs, and Crowley groans loudly in frustration.

Before they’d exchanged bodies, Aziraphale hadn’t really given Crowley’s varying chest anatomy a second glance, figuring he just switched in breasts when he needed them and switched them out the rest of the time. It wasn’t how _his_ corporation worked, sure. Once he’d found the mix that felt right, it took rather a lot of concentration to flip things around again. But well, perhaps it was different for demons with the whole _temptation_ thing.

Neither of them had really given a lot of thought to what they were wearing or doing with their corporations, exactly, when they decided to attempt the change, so Aziraphale had found himself in Crowley’s normal outfit, and had been a little perplexed by the spandex undergarment. Interestingly, their anatomical choices remained constant through the change, so Aziraphale remained flat-chested and Crowley had to wiggle around in Aziraphale’s waistcoats to make room for the breasts he’d brought along.

Aziraphale was a little confused as to why the demon would feel the need to wear shapeware when he was practically a stick, though. He’d asked for clarification after a few days of dutifully wearing it, beginning to get a bit concerned that Crowley’s poor self-image was bad enough that he wore slimmers even when he really didn’t need them. He’d been flabbergasted that _that_ was why he would wear something like that, and gave having breasts a go for a few minutes to see what exactly it would be like tucking them down like that. He then spent nearly a half-hour yelling at Crowley for having the audacity to torture himself like that, utterly confusing Crowley’s neighbor as she tried to set up a mukbang with tiny food for her hamsters.

Crowley had gotten him to calm down with a bit of claptrap about safe-binding and talking about how it was much, _much_ easier to bind these days and it really wasn’t all that bad, you got used to it! The consequences of the body exchange continued to reverberate out though, as Aziraphale goosed a couple of campaigns for comfortable, safe binders with funds and ensured prototypes were sent to the demon’s address. He also tends to narc on Crowley if he notices him binding and counts back in his head, considering the number of hours the demon has likely been wearing the garment.

“You’ve really got to ease up, angel,” Crowley grumbles, stepping back and roughly untucking his black and red striped shirt so that he can get at the binder. _You’re starting to drive me crazy._ He doesn’t say it, but it’s plain on his face as he looks away from Aziraphale and reaches under his shirt, unzipping his binder, and shrugs his hands out. “Happy?” he snarls, plucking up his glass and downing it, accidentally bopping the needle on the record and causing the Victrola to stop playing.

“I, I’m sorry dear, I…” Aziraphale sighs, trembling a little. “Y-you know they can tailor for that, right?” he starts, giving him a quivering smile.

“Yeah, or,” Crowley snaps, “I could just do this, like I have for _millennia_.” He shrugs his shoulders forward, slouching aggressively and effectively negating the hint of breasts showing in his still untucked shirt. “Would you rather I wear what is basically a sports bra, or prowl around slouching and worrying there’ll be a harsh wind that’ll out me?”

“Uh,” Aziraphale starts, blinking rapidly as he realizes _oh_, **_that’s _**_why you were always slouching and slinking around_. “I, hm,” he sets his glass down, and approaches the demon with his hands out, seeking forgiveness. “I’m sorry, I… I’m just, I worry too much, you know.”

Crowley huffs, ticking the needle back down on the Victrola and setting his glass back down.

“Just,” Crowley sighs tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “just_ relax_, a little, Aziraphale.”

“Of-of course,” Aziraphale nods, and gives the Victrola a rueful look as the next song that scratchily comes forth from the speaker is a soft croon, “_You always hurt the one you love…_”[1]

Crowley huffs a laugh at that because that certainly hadn’t been on the vellum when he’d peered at it.

“We’ve created a monster,” Crowley chuckles, gesturing at the shop around them, but he offers his hand to the angel nonetheless. He pulls him in close to rock gently back and forth through the song.

As the song ends, the record crackles a little, switching back to the original programming, and Benny Goodman’s saucy clarinet regales them. “I really am sorry dear,” Aziraphale sighs, pulling back. 

“’S alright,” Crowley sighs, and leans against the back of the couch. “Been a rough few days.”

“Yes, I suppose it has,” Aziraphale nods, rubbing his eye idly. He fingers the comb, smiling fondly to himself.

Crowley pops himself up off of the couch and makes a show of stretching and checking his watch. “I should get some rest,” he audibly cracks his neck, twisting his head from side to side.

“I’ll give you a call on Monday, then,” Aziraphale nods, and Crowley scoffs.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow, angel,” he pats him on the shoulder as he walks by.

“Oh?” Aziraphale turns, surprised, watching him tie his boots back up. “What are we doing tomorrow?” Crowley waves him off, tucking his shirt back in and idly tidying his hair.

“Gotta have show-and-tell, remember?” Crowley tugs his jacket into place and gives him a smile that does a poor job of hiding his anxiety at the prospect.

“O-oh, of course,” he nods, frowning a little.

“Night,” Crowley gives the angel a small salute and disappears into the darkness of the front of the shop, leaving Aziraphale alone with his wine and the big bands of the 30s and 40s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The song referenced here is [The Mill's Brothers - You Always Hurt the One You Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mS9U75YC-jA) [return to text]
> 
> Also, yes, I know it's absolutely 100% book canon that Aziraphale is incredibly manicured but you know what? _Too bad_, he's an anxious nail biter, fight me.


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley doesn’t go home at first, jittering with anxious energy. He’s tired, absolutely _exhausted_, but he won’t be able to sleep. It’s that sort of exhaustion where you’ve looped around the bend from, _I’m going to die if I don’t find a bed right this second _to, _I’m awake and this is just my life now_. He drives around London, considering one or two clubs with mild interest before retiring to his new shop. He pours the stale salt-and-scale water in the dish tub out and settles into his computer chair. He’d been planning on maybe inhaling a bunch of fashion and architectural magazines like he had the last time he’d redone his flat, but really, he doesn’t want the shop to be like that.

He's had greenhouses and sheds throughout the ages, places where he could tuck himself away from the world and just focus on the softness of a bloom as it slowly unfurls just for him. Those places were more of a home to him than his flat has ever been, really, but the flat is… a means to an end. A piece of the protective shell that he places between him and the world, hiding himself so well that there were times when even he wasn’t sure who he was anymore. _Still a demon_. That part at least was always constant. Hopefully.

He could use something like the old sheds and glasshouses that he’s hunkered in through the ages. Quiet and unobserved, a place to be as tender and kind as he wished away from prying eyes. He closes his eyes and focuses on what he’d like the shop to look like, and slowly, stretching and cricking his joints and bones, daydreams it into reality.

A few more windows creep in, vertical, opaque, and thin, around the corners of the building, and strong metal shelving clacks into mounting on the brick-walls. The room subdivides with a half-wall, even more shelving stacked into it, and sun lamps crumble from the ceiling and settle into rows in the back. Two long white worktables develop around the open-doorway to the back with drawers, cupboards and cubbies for plant-ties, stakes, wire, drying seeds, and whatever other knickknacks he needs.

He struggles a little with what will be the front of store, and ends up with a roughly drawn set of cloth tarps on the ground, outlining what may be a U of counterspace for the till if he decides to go with that. He pushes the kitchen to be smaller, just a mini-fridge with a cheap coffee machine, card table and chair and pools the rest of the space into the inventory room, filling it with rich smelling bags of fresh soil, towers of clay and plastic pots and bags of fertilizers. He nearly evaporates the restroom, but ultimately just turns it into a concrete shower stall with a modernistic, black toilet, mimicking his bathroom at home.

He's feeling a bit loopy as he considers the doorway that he wants to link with his home. He hasn’t entirely thought it through before now, but he’s probably going to get rid of the greenhouse in his home entirely and use that doorway as the link to here. But before he does that, he needs to empty that room and bring it here. _Ugh_. He’d been hoping he could skip some of the moving-van nonsense with the whole linking process, but no such luck.

A comfortable wooden bench appears in the inventory room, apropos of nothing, and he plunks into it, pulling a quilt from nowhere and, still in his fancy suit, he lies back to doze for a bit, knowing that the inevitable crick in his neck will wake him up in time for tomorrow.

He doesn’t sleep long enough to get a crick, sadly. He wakes up with tears on his face and a deep sense of dread, spending a dubious amount of time talking himself into getting up and leaving his shop. He folds the quilt up into the back of the Bentley, and heads home.

He changes into dowdier clothes to lounge about in and maybe, _maybe_ try sleeping. It’s incredibly unlikely to happen though with the leaden stone of dread in his chest. It feels like the two weeks of waiting for Heaven and Hell to finally come down and punish them: a horrible, constant, twanging tension mixed with the constant anticipation of someone coming up from behind you to club you over the head. At a certain point, he’d wanted to turn around and shout at the sky, _just fucking do it already, I’m right here_, but at the same time, he’d gulped down the acid in his throat and prayed, _please, just a few more minutes, I’m not ready_.

He shivers and shakes himself to release a little of the tension. Moving helps, so he decides to begin moving some of his plants to the shop. He pulls some of his older specimens out delicately, and loads them into the Bentley with care. He just takes one load over, a mix of old and new, a nice introductory set to get used to the new place. It starts to snow lightly as he carts the pots into the shop and he ends up modifying things a little as he sees his real plants in the new location, and inevitably the ‘back’ of the shop ends up growing much larger, leaving just enough room for a small desk and a few cramped shelves for the front. He pushes and changes the building a little more, pulling in a skylight because he’s gotten used to the ones at his flat.

His back cramps up badly as he tries to cart an older juniper onto his worktable. He flumps into a plush green armchair, miracling himself another hot water bottle, and grumbles at the fact that he can’t fuss around for a bit and has to just sit in his anxiety.

He honestly can’t remember the last time he’d been in his ‘true form.’ For some time, he thought he’d lost it somehow, pushed it down so far that all he had left was the serpent. He preferred humanity so he hadn’t let it bother him until a minor demon gutted him with a spelled knife in a marketplace just to try to goad him into shifting. People had noticed that he was private about it, and like they always did, they couldn’t leave well enough alone. He let _something_ slip that day, something of the void, blacker than night and quivering with dreadful potential. It still haunts that particular demon to this day.

He’s also not sure if he pops out, will he be able to get back in? It could be terrifically hard to get back into human shape from a snake sometimes. He’ll get partially there, _so close_, and then be seized with the anxiety of _oh no oh no what if I can’t what if I CAN’T???_ and then he’ll have to wind himself down to try again. He exhales softly, and glances at his watch. It’s nearing 8 am, so the angel will actually entertain him now. If he arrives before 5 am generally, Aziraphale gets fussy to the point that it isn’t even worth trying to do anything with him for a day or so before he settles back into his routines.

He rolls to his feet and miracles a pot or two out of the way of the exit so that he doesn’t have to tweak his back again, and heads out, rolling his collar up against the chill. It’s snowing harder now, but it’s not cold enough for it to collect on the ground, so it’s just cold and slushy. He walks up to the shop, and lets himself in the first entrance. The mechanism’s a little sticky, and he has to struggle to get the doors closed as if he’s opened them the wrong way and it won’t latch. He pushes in the second set of doors, and the handle is so cool in his hands that it almost feels like it’s bitten him.

“Aziraphale?” he calls, shaking his hands with a wince. He knows he’s here, but he can’t really put a finger on where exactly. He’s not in the back, or upstairs, and as Crowley’s beginning to consider prowling around the aisles, there’s a soft pop and Aziraphale appears behind an aisle next to the vault.

“Crowley?” he gasps a little, looking flushed and startled. “It’s-it’s,” he scrambles for his pocket watch, peering at the face of it, “it’s 8:12!” He stares pointedly at the demon before shaking himself and looking back down at his watch.

“Oh, it’s… it’s eight already?” he shakes himself a little, and gropes for another excuse, “You know I’m not open yet.”

Crowley scoffs at that, taking a few slow steps towards the angel, “You’re not usually open on Saturdays anyway, angel.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale takes a deep breath and nods. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“I mean, that’s what you wrote on the sign,” Crowley points at the blue-black block letters rimmed in gold, detailing his ridiculous and changeable schedule. Almost each line has the line “subject to change” noted in brackets next to it in very small letters.

“Yes, sorry,” he shakes himself and dusts his hands on his waistcoat. “Hm, you look dreadful dear,” he grimaces, peering at the demon as he walks towards him. “Did you sleep at all?”

Crowley huffs and waves his hand, “Eh.”

Aziraphale comes up to him and dusts off his hoodie here and there, smears of dirt and dust left over from moving the plants around. Aziraphale purses his lips, but he manages to suppress the nagging that wishes to pour forth at that. _Relax, angel_.

“Are you ready?” Crowley looks away from him, rocking on his feet a little.

“Well, we should have something to eat first,” he sniffs, giving him a prim look. Crowley rolls his eyes, sighing.

“Alright, where to?” he grouses.

“You choose,” Aziraphale smirks, making Crowley grumble. He motions and the angel follows him, curiously looking around for his car before realizing that Crowley’s just walking down the block away from him, not towards a vehicle. He rushes after him, and they turn down at the corner, entering the small coffee shop perched there.

“Could use some coffee,” Crowley sniffs, bleary eyed demeanor perfectly at home with the myriad of other sleep-deprived people alongside them fueling up for the day.

Aziraphale orders a scone and some tea and Crowley sips at a double-shot espresso, neither of them talking much at first, just eying each other and their fellows in the coffeeshop.

“Where were you thinking of doing it?” Aziraphale asks, dribbling crumbs on his chest and quickly dabbling them up with a napkin.

“Uhhh,” Crowley sighs, leaning his head back and regarding the ceiling. “I was thinking Mars maybe,” he shrugs, and Aziraphale drops a large hunk of his scone onto the table without scrambling to catch it.

“_Mars_? As in the planet?” he gawps. “I thought you were joking about going to Alpha Centauri,” he huffs.

Crowley grumbles, ducking his head and looking flustered. “I wasn’t,” he grunts softly.

“So, what, are we flying there?” Aziraphale smirks, wiggling his shoulders as if they’d be winging it there.

“Are you done?” Crowley growls, popping out of his seat, and crumpling his paper cup up in his hand. He’s unreadable with the light behind him, hair and glasses masking his expression.

“Oh, uh, yes, I suppose,” Aziraphale dabs at his lips, and pops the lid back onto his tea. He follows the demon curiously as he walks from the coffee shop on the corner down to the alley near his shop where he’s parked the Bentley. He snaps the door open, and gestures for Aziraphale to get in, looking a bit pink and miserable with the cold.

Crowley navigates to the driver’s side, and pauses, cracking his back carefully before starting the Bentley up.

“You’ll probably want to hold onto something,” he grunts, the only warning he gives before roughly gunning the car and shifting gears. Aziraphale yelps and scrabbles for purchase as the Bentley barks forward, careening around the alley and out to the street. He zips through London, looking for a ley line that he can use for this sort of thing. A lot of the ley lines have withered with cold iron and pollution, but certain types have gotten even brighter, bolstered by the buzz of humanity and drama around them. He’d accidentally rerouted a lot of the ley lines around London when he’d toyed with the M25, actually, and even though he hadn’t really planned to go that way, it ends up being his best option, so he takes it.

The Bentley shakes and rattles ominously as he grits his teeth and focuses on the red planet, vast and dusty, preferably far away from any currently active rovers. Aziraphale starts babbling nervously, “Are you sure about this, dear?” as the ride gets increasingly rocky even though the road is perfectly flat in front of them. There’s a long second where everything is rocking back and forth jarringly until there’s a soft _ding_ and the M25 disappears from around them and for a minute, they’re just floating and idly spinning in the deep blackness of space.

Aziraphale stares out the window, unnerved by the fact that there’s no sun or planets or anything remotely familiar about this place to him. He’s been _out there_ before, of course, but never so deep that there was this little light, so few stars. A muscle in Crowley’s jaw twitches as he pulls them from a far corner of the universe he may once have hidden in and launches them forcibly where he’d been _intending_ to go, and they skid out on reddish dust.

He pants a little, and rubs at the twinging ache in his forehead.

“Wow,” Aziraphale looks around awed. “Can we get out?” he gives Crowley an anxiously excited smile.

“Sure,” Crowley growls, wincing at the roughness of his voice. He coughs for a second, and turns off the engine, jumping out of the Bentley to escape Aziraphale’s concern.

Crowley sniffs, and grimaces at the smell. It’s not raspberries out here, just the smell of burning rubber and grease. He gently rubs the bonnet of the Bentley, and leans down to press a kiss to the windshield. “Ya did well,” he whispers, patting.

Aziraphale gives him a confused, fond look before continuing to take in their surroundings. There are rough, craggy mountains in the distance, and a crater not far from where the Bentley’s skidded out from the ether.

“Help me put up some protections,” Crowley grunts, and motions for a circle centered around the Bentley. He starts scuffing a pattern in the ground with his feet, and Aziraphale shrugs, joining him going in the opposite direction. As they meet on the other side of the Bentley, Aziraphale steps back, letting the demon complete the circle as he breathes a few more intricacies into the spell. As Crowley’s scuffed path closes, a bit of Earth’s atmospheric blend sinks in around them, along with a rather bombastic “hide me” and “ignore me” set of spells.

Crowley shifts his shoulders a little, and takes a deep breath. “Thanks angel,” he sighs, “Wouldn’t have thought of that.”

Aziraphale preens a little at the compliment, and Crowley shoves the Bentley towards the outer rim of the circle so that they’ll have space.

“I suppose I’ll start?” Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley shrugs as if he’s completely disinterested in this whole thing.

Aziraphale toys with his bowtie for a moment, unfocusing his eyes and rolling his shoulders. He shifts slowly, growing taller, wings unsheathing in pairs, and his second pair of arms wiggling out. He rolls his neck, and Crowley chuckles a little.

“Thought you had more hands,” he pulls a hand through his own red locks, smiling bashfully.

“_Yes, well_,” Aziraphale starts, sounding a bit flustered and embarrassed. His voice is larger and directly hums into Crowley’s mind as he continues to flex and push himself out of his corporation. He stretches his back out, wings twitching and jittering, and finally shakes himself, toying with his lapels and waistcoat, still present even here.

He ends up being nearly nine or ten feet tall, still standing primly with his hands in front of his waist, toying with his claws. His head is multifaceted, three faces nestled onto one neck, but not uncomfortably so. His normal face sits facing forward, a few more human eyes dotted around his cheeks, and even more eyes spotted around on his wings and shoulders. Most of the eyes roll around to peer at Crowley, but a few are considering the scenery around them, all brightly butterscotch brown here thanks to the alien sky. There’s a hint of wheels of eyes to them in the way they’re set in his body, and if he were to spin around quickly or perhaps swing a fist, Crowley’s sure that his form might very well seem like an orb of wheels and light, eerily staring at everything and nothing.

Next to the human’s face is a regal lion with a solemn regard, and on the other, a ram’s head with no horns. The nub of the one missing wing here is longer, extending nearly out to the forearm, but it’s almost entirely exposed bone with small scraps of skin and tendon, no feathers. On his primary hands, he has only one long, golden claw, like the finger of a particularly princely gauntlet, mirroring the pinky ring on his right hand. His second pair of hands has a motley assortment of claws, some missing spots up to the mid-knuckle, and others completely enrobing his fingers.

Invisible to the naked eye, and only barely visible to Crowley, are four celestial weapons hanging behind Aziraphale’s four arms like a half-invisible arms closet, available should he need them: a flaming sword, a white, gilded spear, an eight-flanged mace, and a decorated scepter. In spite of all the little nods towards his origination as a warrior, he’s soft and gentle even here, still radiating the purposeful sense that _I’m safe, I’m kind, and I will take care of you_.

“You’re beautiful,” Crowley offers softly, and he means it, lips quivering a little and eyes a little watery. Many of Aziraphale’s eyes roll in pleasure at the heartfelt adoration.

“_I’m not really all that_,” Aziraphale dusts his jacket idly, looking pleased and bashful.

Crowley chuckles, kicking up a little dust nervously. “Well, alright,” he sighs, “Here goes.”

For a moment, it looks like nothing’s going to happen, Crowley looking almost a little constipated as he concentrates. “Can ya…” he grits, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, “I dunno, look away for a sec?”

Aziraphale smirks a little, but makes a show of turning away, hiding his variety of eyes.

For a second, Crowley simply disappears, nothing humanoid, snake, or really, _anything_ there except for a whiff of anise. A blur of darkness pops in, tearing a hole in reality, and then, after millennia of tightly holding back on _everything_, his true form shunts out with force. Aziraphale starts back a little in surprise, having turned around curiously at the sudden absence of the demon.

Crowley’s entire being shudders, and he breathes in hard, sharp gasps as he gets used to being _this_ again. He’s large, nearly two stories tall with his chest and necks extended, potentially even taller were he to stand up on his haunches as he’s perhaps as long as a city block through the body as well. He’s something of a chimera or dragon, but not quite like anything ever recorded. His body is long and reptilian, and he’s curled in a bit on himself to stay within the small circle they’ve designated for this. Tiny, iridescent black scales plate his flesh, shimmering in greens and purples as he gasps and twitches. The only place where the scales fade on his body are near his wings, mid-back, where the scales break into black feathers. He has only one pair of wings to Aziraphale’s six, but they’re enormous, and while Aziraphale’s wings each appear almost like a normal bird’s besides the eyes socketed in them, Crowley’s appear normal only up through the forearm, fanning out into far more than the normal number of metacarpals at the ends. He has six reptilian legs spread along his serpentine body, the front-most ones sporting unretractable claws that curl forth, needle-thin and silver.

Crowley awkwardly bends his chest and shoulders down, shrinking himself unconsciously so that he can fit here in this circle with Aziraphale, and brings his heads down and near to level with Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale’s three heads are all nestled into one spot, three facets on one head, really. In contrast, Crowley has three bestial aspects at the fore, each with its own neck like a hydra. His leftmost head is corvine with its head tilted awkwardly towards Aziraphale; a cluster of yellow eyes blinkering pupil-less at him. Aziraphale gently reaches out to tilt the crow’s head sideways, revealing the cracked halo which had once floated around its head now buried and shattered in an eye socket, blinding the left side of the crow’s aspect. Crowley’s largest and prime aspect is that of the serpent, scaled in red and black, socketed with two extra pairs of eyes around his normal ones and bearing a browbone sharper and more jutted than his normal serpentine form. On the right is something feloidean but still roughly scaled and sporting tightly spiraled, straight horns. The right side of this head is also scarred, an ear and a horn cauterized off by something holy, leaving an angry, glittering scar.

“I thought you said you weren’t in the war,” Aziraphale huffs, hand feeling over the gold scar until the feline-thing butts his hand with its forehead.

Crowley crosses his arms grumpily over his chest, reptilian until they come past the elbow where they become determinedly humanoid but so black and smooth that they look carved of ebony. “I wasn’t a soldier,” he hisses, looking away from the angel.

Aziraphale scritches the forehead of the feline-thing, looking pensive and waiting to see if the demon will elaborate.

“It was Michael,” he shrugs, “Wrong place, wrong time.”

Aziraphale nods, and steps back. He’s seen the creators of the cosmos from afar sometimes in the beginning. They were all incredibly large like this, made to be able to walk easily from one end of creation to the other without tiring. He was most familiar with those that he’d described drunkenly to theologians and scholars, chimeras with lion’s legs, ram heads and scorpion tails, the flickering, jittering magical potential tense around them constantly. He’s almost a little glad that he cannot recall anything that might be Crowley from before the fall, nothing so desperately reptilian and jumpy. He squints a little, forcing himself to focus because if he doesn’t, Crowley almost jitters in and out of this particular piece of space or time.

“You’re breathtaking,” Aziraphale offers, taking one of his hands in his and bringing it to his lips. Crowley chuckles a little at that.

Crowley coughs eventually, and shudders himself back into human form, stumbling over to lean on the Bentley.

“Ugh,” he groans, hugging his middle as his human body shudders and quivers after being so absolutely, terribly vulnerable, exposing his true form like that.

Aziraphale slowly spools down, fluttering back into human. Two right hands gently caress the demon’s head and he steps in to bring his head to his chest. “Shh, it’s okay dear,” he whispers, and runs his fingers through his hair to calm him. It helps a little, and Crowley’s able to bring his head up, and smile a little shakily at him.

“Thanks angel,” he sighs, looking tired, “Let’s go home, eh?”

“How exactly are we going to do that?” Aziraphale asks, considering the lack of ley lines available in the vicinity.

“You’ll see,” Crowley smirks, sidling into the Bentley. He shuffles his shoulders a little, resettling himself still, and taps the steering wheel a little impatiently as he waits for Aziraphale to get in. Once Aziraphale’s shut the door and fussed a little with his bowtie, he guns the Bentley and squeals forward, soaring directly into the crater, Aziraphale howling in terror as they smash face first into… the M25, careening around mid-day traffic with Crowley cackling madly in the background. He gooses reality a little to get them to the bookshop faster, and ends up grinning manically at the angel, giggling in spurts.

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry angel,” he chuckles, vibrating a little with excess energy.

“Right, yes,” Aziraphale quivers, quickly shunting himself out of the Bentley and across the street to the shop. Crowley follows him, crackling with energy, apparently looping from _fuck it I’m awake and this is my life _to _FUCKING YES, I’M AWAKE AND EVERYTHING IS **AMAZING**_.

Aziraphale squints at the demon pacing around his shop, still casting off shards of magic and babbling about this or that. _Well, when in Rome_. Crowley will eventually fall off the energy high and crash, but for now, Aziraphale takes advantage of the frenetic energy of his friend who just so happens to own a car which could be used for, say, carrying or transporting things as well as apparently teleporting across the known universe. They drop by a number of shops, picking out pieces for Aziraphale’s new kitchen: a pizza stone, a couple of graters and zesters, a few matching sets of oven mitts. Crowley buys some pieces for his new shop, as well: a handful of vases and pitchers, some nicer misters, and a nifty utility knife. Crowley starts to dim as Aziraphale pulls him to another bookshop to help him lug a large shipment back to his shop.

Crowley plunks the fifth box next to the others by the till, and cracks his back loudly.

“Shall I call you on Tuesday?” Aziraphale asks, eying the demon stuttering around drowsily. “Or I could stop by and wake you up in person,” he shrugs as Crowley looks at him blearily. “We’ll be leaving together again, after all.”

Crowley shrugs, rubbing his eyes with both hands. “What’ver,” he yawns.

“Well, go home and get in bed before you fall asleep in traffic,” Aziraphale waves him off and Crowley chuckles. He walks over and delicately kisses him on the cheek before leaving, startling the angel terribly.

* * *

Crowley falls into bed in his clothes, still wearing his glasses on his face and falls asleep like that, face-down on his comforter for the next two days. Aziraphale walks into his flat around 10 am Tuesday and chuckles a little sadly at the sight, waking him.

“Guuuh,” Crowley groans and pulls off his glasses, rubbing at the bruise they’ve left on the bridge of his nose.

“Feeling any better?” Aziraphale asks, waving to turn off the night light that always seems to pop on whenever he’s around. Crowley makes another indeterminate noise and shakes his head. He lumbers into his bathroom, showering mostly to wake himself up, and shoos the angel so that he can dress because he forgot to get a change of clothes again.

He dresses in a pretty similar outfit, heavy jacket, long tunic that reads almost like a skirt or dress, and dark jeans.

“Y’eaten yet, angel?” he asks, coughing a little. He’s pulled on his delicate oval sunglasses because they don’t bother the bruising around his nose so much.

“We can get something on the way, sure,” Aziraphale smiles. Crowley nods and roots around for the postcard confirmation.

“You’ve got yours already, right?” he asks, delicately poking his nose where it’s tender.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale waves it at him. “I’ve also made sure to bring plenty of snacks and water since we’ll be there for a while,” he brandishes the bag at the demon, and he can see the silver of his canteen along with a number of bags of prepared foodstuffs.

Crowley shrugs, “Guess we’re ready then.”

* * *

They stop by a chain restaurant on the way out to the countryside, and Crowley puts away a surprising amount of scrambled eggs and bacon. Aziraphale’s a little tremulous with anxiety, so he just picks at his single plate of waffles, smiling softly at how the tables have turned.

They make their way into Limbo without any trouble and today it’s a mild day with no rain or snow, so Limbo is placidly gray instead of rainy. Crowley tentatively steps into the waiting room, and is glad to find that the spell seems to only be juggling two other people at the moment.

They register with the clerks at the front, and sit in the waiting room. Wherever they are this time must be an airport, or at least adjacent to an airport as a giant window is stretched out in front of them with enormous jets sitting around with a twilit sky behind them.

“You ever fly on a plane, angel?” Crowley asks, squinting at the sunset that only they’re privy to here.

“A few times,” he nods. “Not my favorite way to travel,” he grimaces, pulling a tin of biscuits from his bag.

“Better than boats,” Crowley sighs.

“True,” Aziraphale nods through a mouthful of biscuit.

Crowley sits with his arms crossed over his chest, leant back but also poised on the edge of the seat, jittering while Aziraphale rests his hand on the armrest next to him, sitting comfortably and properly in the plush chair.

“Ezr… Azriefael?” a nurse calls, looking incredibly confused at the paper. Crowley snorts, and Aziraphale pats his knee.

“Should’ve heard how they butchered it last time,” he chuckles. “C’mon.”

“Oh, and, Cro—” Crowley makes a mild bow in front of the tall nurse, who looks at them both a bit bewildered. “Right, uh, this way,” he gestures. 

They follow him through a different trail in the back this time. It’s connected to the cafeteria and other longer-term wards that Crowley’s seen on occasion. “Here you are,” he gestures them towards a room which is roughly the size of Crowley’s bedroom.

“I’m afraid we’re going to need something larger,” Aziraphale frowns at him, and the nurse looks a bit lost at that.

“Belfry, here, I’ll find something, go on,” an older woman comes up, and plucks the clipboard from him. “Right, okay,” she sizes them up, “Follow me.”

The room she leads them to is a bit of a walk away. It’s two rooms the size of the last room with the wall knocked out roughly between them, one of the lights on one side is dimmed and flickering occasionally. “This should do,” she nods, and they both peer in looking confused.

“What happened here?” Crowley asks, waving to fix the flickering light.

“Ah, uh,” she smiles a little at the now-functioning light. “Minotaur anger management class,” she gives him a tight smile.

“Oh, well, _of course_,” Crowley scoffs.

“Alright, there’ll be a nurse by to give you your badges and then another for the sample,” she waves. “You can move the furniture around a bit, just… well, don’t destroy the walls or anything,” she waves at the ripped-out section with a bit of distaste.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale gives her a tight smile. She leaves, pinning something to the door on her way out, and Crowley begins tugging around the functional furniture from the torn up side of the room to the other.

“You’re sure you’re alright with this?” Aziraphale asks nervously, fingers worrying over the handle of his bag. Crowley peers at him, squinting against the bright light in the room.

“We’re doing it, aren’t we? Angel, are you alright?” he sidles up to him, finally noticing the tension in his frame. “C’mon, let’s sit down, hm?” They settle on one of the couches that’s still in one piece, Crowley tucking an arm around the angel and gently rocking him back and forth.

“We won’t fit on these once we’re…” Aziraphale huffs, waving his hand at the couch and looking flustered.

“Just gotta have a little imagination,” he smiles fondly at him, and at that point, the door opens.

“Ah, hello,” a young woman walks in, brandishing two glittering paper bracelets. “Am I interrupting something?”

Crowley gives her an anxious smile. “’Course not,” he pops up, leaving Aziraphale sitting primly on the couch. “These the… uh, badges?” he asks. She nods, handing him one.

“So that we can identify you once you’re… y’know,” she gives them both a polite smile. “They’ll change with you, so don’t worry about them getting too tight,” she hands the other to Aziraphale. “Do you two need anything? Water?” Crowley shakes his head and Aziraphale stiffly does so too, after a moment.

“Okay,” she says a little airily. “Well, it’ll just be a moment more, thank you for being patient,” she gives an odd little curtsy and leaves.

Crowley paces a little in front of Aziraphale, tucking the band onto his bony wrist. Aziraphale watches him nervously, chewing his lips. The door pops open again, and a small young woman walks in dragging a heavy cart behind her. She’s waifish, and as Crowley peers at her, he realizes she’s a seer, and a powerful one at that with pure white eyes and no pupils.

He positions himself in front of Aziraphale protectively, considering the creature in front of them.

“You’re not human,” he glowers, and she grins slyly at him.

“And?” she asks, motioning for him to add the second half.

“You’re not dead,” Aziraphale gawps from behind him.

“Very good,” she smiles at them both. “The sampling process can be a little… unwieldy for human souls,” she gestures. “Better to have someone like me doing it,” she tosses her head a little, exposing elfin ears.

“Huh,” Crowley squints at her.

“You should probably sit down.” Her knowing smile is a little unnerving, and he isn’t entirely comfortable having his back to her, so Crowley walks awkwardly backwards with his head canted back to keep an eye on her and settles next to Aziraphale, tense on the edge of the couch.

She continues to smile a little eerily, pulling the heavy cart over to their corner of the room. “So,” she says, digging through a number of thick wires in the cart. “I will warn you that it’ll make you very cold or numb, around the sample location,” she points at her own inner-arm. “Afterwards, it will ache, a lot,” she pulls out something that looks like an overlarge rose gold hairdryer. “It will heal normally, but just be aware that it’s going to hurt, even if it doesn’t at first.”

“Lovely,” Crowley grits out, and she gives him an adoring smile, like he’s just given her the correct answer she’s been prodding for.

“Who wants to start?” she grins, brandishing the sampler like a toy gun or drill. Crowley huffs, pulling off his jacket and rolling the arm of his tunic up to his upper arm, exposing his left forearm.

“Go for it,” he grumbles, gesturing with his elbow out as she hesitates. Her pupil-less eyes linger on him, considering both of his arms before she gently brings the nose of the device to his inner arm, and presses a button. It whirrs softly like an AC unit as it suctions onto his arm, and the flesh around it becomes very cool, his fingers tingling a little. He feels the punch as the sample is taken, but just vaguely. For a second, nothing seems to happen, and she withdraws the nose of the device, watching him curiously. Then, there’s a jerk of something giving, a support beam knocked out, and he scrabbles helplessly as his carefully arranged shards of glamour start to fail him and dark magic begins to gleam around him.

“Ooh,” she grins indulgently at him, “Look at you.” He’s still holding human form, but sweating profusely with the effort. “It’s no use, you’re just going to hurt yourself,” she waves a little, unscrewing the head of the device and pulling a replacement disc from the cart.

“Right,” Crowley grits, and closes his eyes, taking a few quick, sharp breaths and forcing himself to let go. His long serpentine body spools out along the edge of the room, leaving his chest queerly lounged on the couch. He cricks himself around, wiggling to find a more comfortable way to fit himself around the room.

She points the device towards Aziraphale, apparently unfazed by the serpentine thing susurrating around the room. He rolls back his shirtsleeve, and proffers his arm as well, quivering with suppressed anxiety. He hisses as it gets cold and jumps as the sample punches out. He glances down at the reddened disc of missing flesh on his arm, and rolls his shoulder, flumping out his numerous wings and arms.

“You two really make a lovely couple,” she smiles conspiratorially at them, Crowley spooling himself behind and around Aziraphale. They both squint numerous eyes at her at that comment, and she doesn’t have the self-preservation to feel threatened; she just laughs.

She unscrews the used disc, and pulls out another, screwing it in. “Alright, you’re both done for now. Someone will be by to check in on you two a few times, so don’t get too rowdy,” she wags a finger at them grinning, and they both glower at her. She giggles at that, and thunks the device into the cart and begins tugging it away.

They settle in after a bit, Crowley coiling himself around the angel like a dragon guarding his horde. Aziraphale pulls out a book from his bag along with his reading glasses which have sprouted a number of extra lenses for his eyes. Aziraphale is still warm, but Crowley has more body here to diffuse the excess heat, so it’s not unpleasant to have the angel leaning back against him. In fact, he finds himself falling asleep, Aziraphale’s fingers slowly petting along the forehead of his serpent aspect from where he’s rested his heads in his lap.

Aziraphale makes his way through three books, nibbling on the sandwiches he’s prepared in advance when a nurse nervously pokes in on them. Aziraphale puts a finger to his lips, pointing towards the sleeping demon heads in his lap, and the nurse nods.

“Need anything?” she whispers, and Aziraphale shrugs and shakes his head. The nurse gives him a thumbs up and leaves. This repeats twice more with different nurses until Crowley blinkers awake, stretching his long body out with a lot of pops, cracks, and hisses. When he pulls back from the stretch, there’s a soft _pop_ and he’s human again, much to his surprise. Aziraphale falls back yelping, arms freewheeling awkwardly as he’s no longer supported by a serpentine body.

“Geez,” Crowley groans, dropping to the ground and weakly trying to roll his sleeve down. Both of his arms are trembly and achy, and it’s a struggle to get them to do anything. Somehow, it feels like the sampling duplicated somehow, like he’s got _two_ holes, one of them in each arm. He doesn’t really, only one disc of reddened flesh missing, but both arms throb and ache in unison. He makes a weak, whingy noise at Aziraphale as he tries to roll down his sleeve. His good arm can move up a little bit more than the other, but it trembles and gives off sharp pains with the effort of his attempts.

“Here,” Aziraphale delicately helps him get his sleeve back down and fishes his coat out from where it’s fallen down behind the couch and helps him into it as well. He doesn’t notice it, but as he delicately fixes the collar on Crowley’s coat, he pops back as well. He’s still got his extra pair of arms out because his one left arm is as useless as Crowley’s currently are.

“What time is it?” Crowley grumbles, giving up on raising his wrist to look at his watch.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale winces as he goes to pull his pocket watch out with his left arm, and readjusts to do it with his other left arm. “Oh, it’s 10 am,” he looks surprised.

“Wednesday or Thursday?” Crowley huffs, wanting to rub his face but shivering and looking miserable instead.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale pauses. “Here, uhm,” he gently takes Crowley’s wrist with the watch, making him hiss, and peers carefully at it. “Wednesday,” he offers, and delicately rubs his hand as it feels very cold.

“I don’t think I can drive like this,” Crowley grumbles, pushing his head into Aziraphale’s shoulder since he can’t rub at his face with his hands.

“Oh, oh, here,” Aziraphale delicately pulls off his glasses and rubs his cheeks and eyes as he knows the demon likes to when he’s tired. “Better?”

“Yuh,” he clicks his tongue. “Got any water?” Aziraphale nods, pulling the canteen from his bag and unscrewing it. He tilts it carefully for Crowley to drink from it.

The door pops open as Aziraphale screws the cap back on and Crowley leans his cheek against the angel’s shoulder, looking grumpy and smushed. “Oh, uh, well,” the nurse smiles, looking a bit surprised. “You’re done already?” he chuckles.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale shrugs, and looks a little helplessly between the nurse and Crowley.

“You can stay a bit longer, if you like,” he shrugs.

“No,” Crowley grunts, pushing past Aziraphale who quickly follows after him.

“Crowley, uhm, here,” he holds the door open for him, and the nurse looks worriedly at him.

“Just a sec, we need to do a quick follow up,” he puts a hand out to catch Crowley’s shoulder as he barrels forward. He glowers up at the man, seething. “You only got one, right?” the nurse peers at him, typing rapidly into a beeper. 

“You can have more than one done at once?” Aziraphale looks horrified at the prospect.

“It’s not advised,” the nurse shakes his head, and puts out his hand again as Crowley tries to push ineffectively past him again. One of the nurses that popped in during the middle of the night rushes up, jangling an aluminum cart full of diagnostic machinery behind her.

“I’m here, sorry,” she pants, pushing hair out of her face. “Let’s get you two wrapped up, eh?” she gives them both a toothy smile. The tall nurse stands, guarding the door as the young woman quickly takes their blood pressure, reactiveness, and pain levels, putting odd, gel-packed bandages over the reddened discs of missing flesh.

“So, is this normal?” Crowley grumbles, managing to raise his right wrist on the arm that _isn’t_ currently gel-bandaged or hole-punched, and he springs out in sweat at the pain that generates.

She gives a sad sigh, and nods slightly. “Yes, for some people, something goes a little haywire with the transition from true form to…” she gestures at him, “and you get a phantom one on the other arm. It’ll clear up with that one.” She points at the bandage, and then goes back to taking Aziraphale’s heartrate with a pen between her teeth, squinting as she focuses on listening to the stethoscope. He may have more than one heart most of the time, and she has to manually record his heartrate because the simple machines she’s dragged over can’t handle that.

“Alright,” she clips the tags on their wrists off with a pair of tiny scissors and motions towards the door. “You’re free to go.”

The tall nurse leads them down a long hallway, and Crowley grimaces as they enter the waiting room.

“Ya guys really gotta refresh the enchantment, it’s getting loose,” he waves not very effectively at the waiting room.

“The… oh, right, hmm,” the nurse peers at the waiting room. “I’ll have to check when we last had it refreshed,” he peers at some paperwork on the back of his clipboard, and then makes a motion towards the front desks with the clerks as Aziraphale and Crowley loiter near him looking a little lost.

“Thanks,” Crowley grumbles, wandering to the front desk. “I hope you don’t want a signature or something because my hands are useless,” he grunts at the man behind the desk who gives him a startled look.

“Thierry,” Aziraphale smiles, eying the badge on the man’s chest and walking up behind the demon. “How lovely to meet you in person.”

Thierry looks between the two of them a bit wildly. “Right,” he smiles. “Let’s uh, let’s get you two checked out. Do you, uh, have a ride home?”

“Yes,” Crowley growls over Aziraphale’s “No.” Thierry peers between them as Crowley struggles to get his elbows onto the countertop, wincing and hissing softly.

“Well, uh, okay,” he sniffs. He taps at the computer a bit, and then smiles. “Aziraphale and Crowley, you’re good to go. We’ll send you your results within the week, alright?” Aziraphale nods a little, arm circling Crowley’s shoulders a little unconsciously.

“Have a nice day,” he gives them a practiced smile, and they slowly meander out of the waiting room and into the parking lot.

“I’m not really sure how you think we’re getting home,” Aziraphale grumbles, turning up Crowley’s collar against the snow as he knows he would if his arms were in better shape.

“I can get us out of Limbo. You can drive us to home or something,” Crowley grumbles, determinedly walking across the parking lot and not paying any attention to the two cars he forces to pause out of turn.

“Excuse me, _I _can drive us? I thought no one else was allowed to drive the Bentley,” Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Oy, glasses,” he grumbles, realizing Aziraphale kept them when he’d helpfully rubbed his face. Aziraphale sighs and delicately sets them on his face, careful of the yellowing bruise around his eyes and nose. The Bentley’s door opens for him without him having to touch it, and he sneers at the angel’s concern, “It’ll be fine.”

He hooks his thumbs on the bottom of the steering wheel with a little effort, and waits for Aziraphale to walk around to the passenger side.

“If I’m going to drive, why don’t I start now?” Aziraphale sighs, wincing as he sidles into his seat and rubbing his own punctured arm.

“Takes magic to get in and out of Limbo at the cairn,” Crowley grunts, glancing back and slowly backing out. “It’ll be easier for me to do that.”

Aziraphale glowers at him, about to start in about how _he could get them in and out of Limbo just fine thank you very much_, but Crowley chuckles. “Look, the Bentley will be fine with you driving, I’m sure, but it’s…” he sighs, shaking his head. “It’ll just go easier if I limp us out of Limbo, okay?” Aziraphale sighs, looking grumpy and paying distinct attention this time to the magical signatures as Crowley slowly pulls them out of the parking lot. There is something, that particular link between Crowley and the Bentley that sparks as they shift over from Limbo back to the cairn, and the demon puffs with the effort.

“We could’ve just pulled out at the London exit,” Aziraphale sighs, putting a hand out to catch Crowley before he faceplants the steering wheel.

“Eh,” he sighs, shaking his head.

“Alright, shift over,” Aziraphale sighs, exiting the Bentley and walking around as Crowley ineffectually crawls over to the passenger side. Aziraphale delicately pushes him a little into place, settling him in.

“Bleh,” he grumbles. “Feels weird,” he rubs his cheek with a shoulder, and Aziraphale huffs.

“You’re telling me,” he sighs, settling into the driver’s seat. “I really wish you’d install seat belts,” Aziraphale gripes, wiggling a little and trying to get comfortable in the seat. He turns the engine on gently, and slowly starts forward, looking around carefully as if this was a busy thoroughfare and not a completely deserted country road.

“Turn left,” Crowley grunts, as the angel starts to make to turn right.

“Am I driving us or not?” Aziraphale huffs hotly, and turns right just to spite the demon. Crowley groans, sinking in his seat. “I know where I’m going,” Aziraphale sniffs, driving at a pace that could easily be overtaken by a bicyclist or a jogger. The Bentley warbles a little, tinkling out a bit of _Hammer to Fall_ while they limp along the countryside. Crowley falls into an angry doze after a while, and Aziraphale ups the pace just a little when he notices with a private smirk.

Aziraphale drives out towards the coast, taking the scenic route, and pulls into a small bed and breakfast near Portsmouth. Crowley snorts awake as they stop, grumpily squinting at their surroundings. “Zirfel?” he grunts, looking around a bit blearily for the angel who’s nowhere in the immediately visible vicinity. Crowley jumps hard as the angel appears on his left, opening his door for him.

“Come along, dear,” he smiles, and Crowley squints a little, realizing that Aziraphale’s tucked his primary arms against his sides so he can play at being human with two functioning arms. His second pair of hands are incredibly bedazzled, long multi-knuckle rings bedecking almost all of his fingers because he hasn’t spent millennia honing them into something more human-seeming.

Crowley struggles out of the car, hissing and fussing, and Aziraphale helps him up the steps into the quaint bed and breakfast. He’s already waved a few reservations into existence, and thankfully a couple had just cancelled their reservation without his help at all.

“I jus’ want to go home,” Crowley whines, managing to grip one of his own wrists and grunting in pain at the effort.

“So do I,” Aziraphale sighs, gently leading him by the shoulders to the front desk. “Crowley, A?” Aziraphale offers, smiling at the clerk who types into a screen and takes the paperwork that Aziraphale hands him. Crowley squints at the angel, confused.

“What, yer takin’ my name?” he grunts, and the clerk surreptitiously looks up from his data entry.

“Aziraphale Crowley?” Aziraphale grins affectionately at him. “A bit of a mouthful,” he pulls the demon a little closer, hand around his waist.

“Here’s your keys, fourth room on the left,” the clerk motions. “Enjoy your stay, let us know if you need anything.” Aziraphale takes the keys and smiles back at him, leading the demon down the hall.

“Your name’s easier, you’ve got a basic first name-last name combo,” he shrugs, then makes a frustrated noise at himself. “I wasn’t thinking, I could’ve just done Ezra, but…” he sighs, and rubs his face.

“But we’re both fucking exhausted and in pain, and should just go home?” Crowley sneers, and Aziraphale scoffs.

“Look, once you can drive, we’ll go home,” Aziraphale unlocks the door with a huff. The room is small, heavily curtained with just one bed and a comfy couch wrapping around a part of the room that one of them could ostensibly sleep on too.

“We could just go home now,” Crowley complains, and Aziraphale grumbles.

“Look, take your glasses off, get your pants and jacket off and get yourself in bed. And stop whining,” Aziraphale huffs hotly, hand on hip. Crowley winces at him, looking miserable.

“’Should lay down some protections, angel,” he huffs softly, plucking his glasses off with some difficulty.

“I’ll handle it,” he gives an imperious sigh, waving his hand to lay down a number of basic spells. Crowley shucks his shoes and jacket off, but struggles with his jeans, finally sitting on the bed and crying in frustration.

“Here, here,” Aziraphale sighs, helping Crowley stand back up and steadying him as he unzips his jeans and rucks them down, Crowley buzzing with embarrassment.

“Can’t help you,” Crowley grumbles, gesturing at the angel’s myriad of buttons.

“I have more hands, so, it’s fine,” he huffs. “Should I order in something? Are you hungry?” Crowley shakes his head no, leaning his head down to delicately feel over the bruise on his face again. Aziraphale idly unbuttons his waistcoat and his slacks, joining the demon in what amounts to sleepwear, just underwear and a top.

“Oh, wait, do you need help with your,” he gestures towards his own chest.

“’s bra, it won’t hurt to wear it more,” Crowley shrugs.

“Okay,” Aziraphale nods. “So… those newer binders we… they’re more like bras then?” he asks, squinting out the window at the dirt hill behind the B&B. He walks over and tugs the curtain closed as it’s not a great view.

“Yeah,” Crowley shrugs. He pulls himself to his feet and begins working on tugging the sheets back so that he can tuck himself in. “One of the ones I wear is pretty much just a sports bra, could probably wear it all day and it’d be fine,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t like, it’s not fully tucking everything down super flat, just kind of…” he huffs, struggling with words with pain and everything else going on. “I’ve cracked ribs with some of them,” he rolls his wrist a little. “Like the one you wore before the trial, that one you could hurt yourself with.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale delicately pulls back the sheets on his side of the bed. They’re ending up on opposites than they usually do in Crowley’s bed, and it bothers him a little. Crowley actually prefers being on the left side of the bed, but it’s just been easier to get in first, crawl over to the right side, and have Aziraphale on the left. He’s pretty content with the current orientation though because it has him farther from the brightness of the curtained windows.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and roughly faceplants into the bed, grunting as he hurts the bruise on his face and his arms.

“Here, here,” Aziraphale huffs, trying to pick him up but Crowley wiggles away from him and manages to get his arms under him and shift around.

“You don’t still wear that one, do you?” Aziraphale asks, looking worriedly over at him as he pants a little with the effort of wriggling so that he’s on his back. He struggles upright so that he can pull the sheets back over him.

“Nah,” Crowley sighs. “Those ones kind of suck, anyway, ‘cause they wear out and you have to buy new ones every couple years.”

“Really?” Aziraphale pulls the sheets up on his side, and Crowley nods at him sleepily. “Seems like a lot of work,” he grumbles.

“Eh,” Crowley’s eyes are sticking shut again.

“You…” Aziraphale starts, staring at the ceiling, and Crowley pops his eyes open to glare at him a little. “Uh,” Aziraphale gives him a worried smile, “You know you don’t have to do it for me, right?”

Crowley heaves a heavy sigh, staring at the ceiling bleakly. The sheets are heavy and the warmth is going to smother him with sleep soon. “I know,” he offers. “Sometimes it feels nice. Sometimes it’s just easier to not worry about it,” he yawns widely, cracking his jaw.

Aziraphale smiles fondly at him, and Crowley chuckles at him. “Y’know,” he coughs a little, battling sleepiness. “Y’know I like you jus’ the way ya are, right?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale gives him a confused look.

“Di’int…” he yawns again, and grumbles in frustration at his body’s lack of cooperation. “Di’int want you to think…” he blinks blearily for a few moments, losing the train of thought, “Y’know… the whole… effort thing.”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” Aziraphale nods, and gently pats in the general vicinity of where Crowley’s hands probably are. “I was worried for a moment, I’ll admit,” he sighs, and Crowley squints at him. “But uh, I suppose we dashed that pretty quickly the next morning,” he grins at him, and Crowley chuckles.

“Love you,” Crowley whispers, drifting off.

“I love you, too, dear,” Aziraphale smiles, gently turning in the bed to watch him fondly.

* * *

They both nap fitfully for the rest of the day and most of the night. In the dim light of morning, Crowley manages to be able to move his arms up a bit, as Aziraphale forces him to prove before he’ll allow him to shower alone.

“Y’think it’ll scar?” Crowley mutters, pulling on the tunic again and wincing a little at the state of it. He flicks his wrist to freshen his clothes a little.

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale considers his own arm as he undoes his cuffs carefully. “Do they have a bath in there?” he asks, peering into the steam and Crowley cracks a sly grin at him.

“They do now.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t make a shower for me,” he waves his wrist a little, wincing.

“Hmph,” Aziraphale looks at him fondly, unbuttoning the front of his shirt. Crowley’s eyes flick between his soft expression and the motions of his hands on the buttons repeatedly. Aziraphale wears a white cotton undershirt, and it surprises him a little. It really shouldn’t because he’d been in that body for those two weeks with that exact type of undershirt. It _had_ looked a little different with Crowley’s configuration, to be fair. Aziraphale’s chest is mostly flat, burgeoning out at the stomach, whereas Crowley’s natural breasts had pushed out over his stomach. They hadn’t really read as distinctly feminine on Aziraphale’s frame, definitely still breasts but a bit smaller and more round, easier to pass off.

He’d been incredibly frustrated with the number of layers that Aziraphale wore, mostly because they all had _so many fucking buttons_, even his fucking pants had buttons! Zippers, velcro, and pull-ons were man’s gift to… each other, or something. Look, it’s just so much easier than centuries of spending hours _buttoning things_. He’s probably spent entire human lifetimes buttoning and unbuttoning, tying and untying clothes and he’s honestly so tired of it.

Aziraphale softly approaches him, watching his face carefully for flickers of trepidation. All he gets is confusion, Crowley squinting at him as he tries to discern the appropriate actions and responses. He brushes Crowley’s damp curls around his ears and softly kisses his lips. Crowley smiles into his mouth and softly bites his bottom lip, his yellow eyes dancing with mirth. Aziraphale chuckles at that, and Crowley tucks one of his arms under his shirt, reaching back to grope his behind while Aziraphale leans forward to punish his incendiary bite appropriately with his mouth.

They fall onto the bed, giggling softly, too tired to do much more than idly paw at each other.

“Go bathe, you animal,” Crowley huffs as Aziraphale very, very carefully arranges his knees between Crowley’s legs, getting ready to settle in.

“Oh, _I’m_ the animal?” he sneers a little, nipping a kiss on Crowley’s cheek.

“Simply beastly,” he purrs, delicately pushing the angel off and falling back on the bed, looking like an incredibly soft, domestic painting of someone’s genderweird mistress. Aziraphale struggles heartily for a moment with not faceplanting Crowley’s boxer briefs which are very plainly visible and available and and and—

Crowley doesn’t notice, playing damsel with his wrist resting over his eyes and sighing plaintively.

Aziraphale clears his throat and quickly stalks into the bathroom, blushing madly and roughly shutting the door. Crowley pops his head up at the slammed door curiously. He’s still got the achy, heavy feeling of meaningful exhaustion, the I-need-to-rest-up-and-heal exhaustion, not just the normal kind. But his stomach gurgles and growls at him, and he checks his watch. It’s nearly six in the morning, a bit early for breakfast maybe, but there’s probably something he can scrounge up. It’s a Bed and _Breakfast_ after all.

He pulls on his pants with a little difficulty and forgoes the jacket, listening to Aziraphale hum as he draws the bath.

“Gonna go get some food,” he calls as the water stops.

Aziraphale makes an affronted noise and Crowley laughs. “I’ll go with you for breakfast later, I just haven’t eaten and I’m _starving_.”

“Fine, fine,” he hears Aziraphale call airily, “Don’t eat any of the staff, dear.” Crowley barks a laugh at that, still cackling a little as he leaves the room. He walks down the dim hall, hips misbehaving as usual, and pokes around for the dining area. The front desk assistant is helping an elderly couple, looking incredibly stressed as she shows them something over and over, and they continue to not understand. He walks past them, and sees the dining area tucked into a corner with a lovely view of the ocean. He sniffs a little, considering the scents of the food available as a couple of other people are already up and eating.

He plucks up a menu, reviewing it and grimaces. There’s something about the smell of the food that’s bothering him. He probably can’t, or shouldn’t, eat anything here, something too greasy or grimy. It’s difficult just to stand nearby and _smell _it, let alone attempt to put it in his mouth. _Ugh_.

“Uh, excuse me ma’am,” a pimply young man with a cracking voice delicately pops up next to him, and Crowley turns towards him before he can have the audacity to touch him. “Uh,” he starts a little at Crowley’s bruised nose, bleeding into yellowing bags under his eyes, and the faint brushing of red stubble around his jaw. “D’ya have your, uhm,” he gulps awkwardly, “your reservation card?” He makes a gesture towards something credit-card shaped.

“Ah,” Crowley nods, taking another step away from him as the boy still looks like he might touch. “I’m afraid I left it in my room,” he gives him a tight, polite smile.

“Uhm, well, y’need it to,” he gestures at the dining room which is still affronting Crowley’s senses, starting to make him a little nauseous.

“Right,” Crowley nods. “Thanks,” he brushes past the boy, stuffing the menu he’d been holding into the boy’s chest and heading back to the room and grumbling. Aziraphale’s still bathing so he shuffles through Aziraphale’s bag for food, but he just finds his canteen, a quarter full, and a lot of empty sandwich bags and biscuit tins.

He sinks into the couch in the corner grumpily and tests holding his arms out in front of him as if he were driving. It aches, but he might be able to manage for a little bit. Maybe if he alternates arms, or something. He sips at the remains of his canteen, poking through the bland magazines that came with the room and waiting for Aziraphale to finish bathing. He takes a long time, and if Crowley’s stomach weren’t grumbling and growling, he’d probably have dozed off. As is, he’s a little tetchy by the time Aziraphale comes out, toweling his curls and looking flushed and relaxed.

“Oh,” he takes in the demon sprawled on the couch, jittering with his stomach audibly gurgling. “I thought you were going out to eat?”

“Something’s wrong with the food here,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods. “Well, I’m sure there’s something within walking distance,” he smiles soothingly.

“Nah, we’re heading home,” Crowley waves, and Aziraphale gives him a knowing smirk. “Alright fine, maybe we’ll just go to another inn that actually has palatable food,” he snarls, surly.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale chuckles a little. “Might be a little tricky with Christmas Eve.”

“Uggh,” Crowley groans, rubbing his face and wincing at the stubble that pokes at him. “I don’t care, let’s go!” he jumps up, thrusting the beige bag at the angel, arm quivering after just a few seconds of holding it.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asks, but Crowley grabs his own jacket, shrugging it on and begins forcibly dressing the angel in his waistcoat and overcoat. “Goodness,” Aziraphale flushes as Crowley pushes him to put his weight on his shoulder so that he can lift his leg and let the demon stuff his foot in one side of his slacks. Crowley roughly buttons the front of his slacks, giving Aziraphale a slightly flushed smirk at the wonder and obviously aroused fluster on his face.

“Am I forgetting anything?” he grumbles, idly smoothing his lapels that are sitting askew.

“Uh,” Aziraphale blinks hard for a few moments, having to shake off the desire to kiss the demon against the wall. “Oh,” he looks down at his bare feet and blushes.

“Right,” Crowley roughly pushes him onto the bed causing Aziraphale to yelp, as he fishes his patterned socks from where they’d ended up between the cushions of the couch and gently pulls them over his feet.

“Oh, ticklish are we?” he chuckles, fingering the bottoms of his feet, and Aziraphale huffs at him, tugging his shoes from the demon and slotting them on while flushing madly.

They go to check out, waiting grumpily in line behind the elderly couple that’s _still_ not understanding wifi passwords or reservation emails or something else entirely. Crowley’s stomach repeatedly gurgles, and Aziraphale winces a little at the smell of the food as well.

“Like they haven’t cleaned the griddle in a bit,” he sniffs.

“It’s not cast iron,” Crowley grumbles, scratching his chin and giving the tortured front desk worker a polite smile as she finally pushes off the elderly couple. She processes their check out blazingly fast, happy for something that’s _easy_ to follow up the previous debacle, and they head out to the Bentley. Crowley doesn’t manage to suppress a chuckle at the poor parking job, the Bentley angled diagonally enough that it’d be difficult for another car to pull in next to them.

“Look, I haven’t driven a car in…” Aziraphale huffs, looking flustered.

“You’ve driven before?” Crowley gives him a startled look. “Besides the moped,” he adds, smirking.

“Yes, I’ve driven before,” Aziraphale grumbles, sliding into the passenger side as Crowley steps into his seat. He grimaces, readjusting the seat and giving Aziraphale a few disgruntled looks. “You were gone a lot in the middle of the century,” Aziraphale waves.

“You had a car?” Crowley gives him another wondering look, and Aziraphale shakes his head vehemently.

“_No_, I have no desire for a car,” he grumbles, and Crowley gently starts the motor. “If I had need of one, I would borrow a friend’s when I had big shipments to pick up,” he waves.

“Like, a pickup truck?” Crowley asks, carefully backing out of the bad parking job.

“Y-yes, I think?” Aziraphale considers, brushing his fingers against his lips. Crowley chuckles at that, and settles in, driving with his right arm at first. He heads north, hoping that perhaps they can get through South Downs if they’re lucky. The scenery’s nice and the weather a bit brisk, only dribbling on them once or twice.

“There weren’t any plans for Christmas, right?” Crowley yawns as they wait at a stoplight.

“No, no,” Aziraphale shakes his head, “Adam and his little friends are doing something, of course, but Anathema isn’t coming back until January, so we’re planning to get together then.” Crowley nods, looking tired.

“Perhaps we should stop, dear,” Aziraphale pats the seat between them and Crowley grumbles.

“Fine, fine,” he waves, pulling out his phone to figure out where he should pull aside.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale yells as the demon nearly rear-ends the person in front of him.

“’S fine,” he gestures, pulling around the vehicle and turning off a main road towards a small town. “This one’s got a pool, and it’s a ‘Genteel lodging with free wifi,’” he sneers a little at the angel, pulling into a three-story building that looks recently renovated, still perfectly off-white with red slatted tiles on the roof. 

“Let’s hope ‘genteel’ means that their food is actually edible,” Aziraphale sighs as Crowley parks and winces, rolling his wrists. He grimaces in the mirror at his appearance, helplessly genderqueer with the feminine dress-tunic and stubble. He pulls his frizzing hair back, tying it into a rough ponytail and sticking his tongue out at his reflection, making Aziraphale chuckle.

“We can buy some clothes, if you like,” he chuckles. “You know,” he pauses, stopping and considering the demon, “I thought you just, y’know, _willed_ them?”

Crowley shrugs his shoulder and head, looking uncomfortable. “Used to,” he grumbles, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes, “Too much effort to maintain after a while.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods, and puts an arm around the demon as he sidles closer, looking cold.

“Let’s get some food and a reservation first,” Crowley grumbles, rubbing his wrists.

“I can do it,” Aziraphale smiles, walking them into the foyer and smiling at the clerk. There are three fine rooms open actually, so it doesn’t take a miracle, but he gives them a reservation anyway.

“Do you have any good lunch spots in the area?” Aziraphale asks, tucking his wallet away as Crowley wanders off, peering at the bland artwork and ensuring the three-year-old currently toddling around has a chaperone somewhere.

“There’s a number of pubs in the area, but uhm…” the clerk strokes his goatee, thinking. “There’s a pizza place just down the street, or I think an Italian place around the corner?” he motions in the general direction.

“Ah, that will be great,” he nods, and turns to watch Crowley give a particularly lancing smile to a harried-looking father.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale calls, stepping forward and the father looks between them, squinting a little. “I think I’ve found a good place for lunch, let’s go,” he smiles, and Crowley gives the father and child a wave goodbye, all wiggling fingers.

They get a little lost, ultimately going the wrong way, and Crowley pulls the angel into a thrift store mostly full of women’s clothes, but there’s a handful of men’s as well. The selection is miniscule, but Crowley manages to pull together two mostly black outfits, accenting with silver and purple quite a bit thanks to the feminine leaning of the store. He miracles himself into one of the outfits after they get some corrected directions, dressing in three thin layered shirts with a blue-gray scarf and the same jacket and pants he’s been wearing. It makes him look peaky but more androgynous, which he seems soothed by.

Both of them are terribly hungry by the time they find the Italian restaurant, and it’s at an odd time struck right between lunch and dinner on Christmas Eve, so they’re able to get a table out front, near the window. Crowley orders his normal chicken alfredo and practically glows as he takes his first bite. The sauce is just thick enough, and the noodles are _perfect_, soft and just dense enough with a bit of tooth.

Aziraphale enjoys his chicken parmesan, lasagna, and chocolate cake, of course, but mostly spends the afternoon enjoying Crowley putting away three courses of alfredo. He asks after the chef as Crowley finishes, dabbing at his lips, a little embarrassed at his own enthusiasm but also full and pleased.

He makes a few scribbles in a small notebook, which Crowley chuckles at, quirking a brow, “Taking notes?”

“We should come back here sometime,” he smiles, “They make their own noodles, they said.” Crowley nods, and takes the receipt as the waiter offers it.

Crowley stretches, wincing a little as he can’t raise his arms as high as he’d like. “Next time we’re in the area,” he shrugs, and gets up to help Aziraphale up as well. They walk back to the hotel watching the sun set on the horizon, leaning on one another and feeling very relaxed and easy in each other’s company. It begins snowing as they make their way to the hotel, squealing children running around the foyer and a hotel employee running around after them with fake elf-ears on and bells on their shoes.

They chuckle a little, and head up to their room on the second floor. It’s a bit more spacious than the last with a nicer view. Their bed situation is a bit different, two single beds set next to each other with a single coverlet draped over both of them, but each tucked with their own separate bedding.

Crowley sits on one of the beds, tugging off his shoes and excess clothes.

“I could probably drive us home now,” he shrugs, and makes a frustrated noise as a yawn foils his plans.

“We can stay the night, dear,” Aziraphale pats his hand, sitting down next to him to also take off his shoes and socks, pausing as he notices Crowley smiling softly at him.

“I love you,” he smiles, leaning in to peck a kiss on his cheek and glowing a little. He doesn’t glow like Aziraphale does, less heavenly light and more of the soft warmth of a hand hiding a flickering match or candle.

Aziraphale grins gamely at him, and kisses him softly on the lips. They giggle and trade kisses for a bit before Crowley pushes him off and pulls off his pants and jacket with a bit of difficulty. He coils himself under the covers as Aziraphale pulls off his clothes, stripping down to his boxers and undershirt this time.

“Ooh, risqué,” Crowley titters, and shouts in surprise as Aziraphale cuddles in next to him on the bed he’s on.

“There’s-there’s _two _beds,” he huffs as Aziraphale snuggles his head on his shoulder, grinning smugly up at him.

“Is there a problem?” he purrs, coiling his arms and legs around the demon who stills, anxiety ratcheting up.

“Uhm,” he gulps. He reaches down and pulls Aziraphale’s hands up a little, so that they’re closer under his breasts and farther from his waist and what’s beneath it. Aziraphale chuckles and gently blows on his neck, grinning as the demon jumps. Crowley takes a deep breath, and shuffles his body a little, trying to get comfortable.

“Can you tug off the coverlet?” he grumbles, weakly moving his arms which are stuck under Aziraphale’s grapple. “I’m gonna overheat with you _and _that.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale lays a kiss to his neck, leaving a wet mark glistening behind and the coverlet folds itself over on the second bed.

“Are we trying to sleep?” Crowley huffs as Aziraphale’s hand pets his upper arm and he nuzzles his neck. Aziraphale chuckles softly in response.

“I love you,” he coos, laying a few more kisses on his neck. Crowley blushes red, and Aziraphale has to resist the urge to pluck up the blanket to watch the blush roll down his neck and under his shirt.

“You’re insufferable,” Crowley grumbles, burning up and wiggling a bit, but not dislodging his hold.

“I’ll let you sleep,” Aziraphale chuckles, kissing the neckline of his shirt and settling his head down. They wriggle a little bit more, but eventually settle with Aziraphale pinning the demon as he falls into a doze, Crowley pleasantly splayed underneath him.

* * *

Crowley wakes up first, awkwardly stuck in the space between the two beds and chilling without any sheets. Aziraphale’s taking up the entirety of the bed that Crowley had originally settled on, the sheets rucked zanily around and over him with his head near Crowley’s knees as if he’s chasing after him. Crowley huffs, pushing his hair out of his face, and starting a little, because he did it with so little effort. He rocks his elbow and wrist a little; it twinges but it’s starting to get closer to normal.

Aziraphale snores loudly and Crowley chuckles. He feels a bit heavy with all the food he put away the day before, but also, warm and happy, unrelated to his current chills without proper sheets. He delicately picks his way out of the center of the beds, and heads into the bathroom to shower. This place does have shaving supplies, though they’re incredibly fragrant. His eyes water and his head hurts, but the shaving gel does make his face incredibly silky and luscious. It’s a high price to pay.

He pokes at the greenish-yellow bruise on his nose, nearly gone thanks to sleep and food. He scrubs the scent of the shaving gel off of his face with the oatmeal scrub in a single-use plastic, and luxuriates in the shower for a bit, enjoying the warmth. The pipes squeal a little as he turns off the water, and he winces, wondering if he’s woken the angel. Aziraphale doesn’t really sleep, but apparently being around Crowley and sleeping with him is leading him to pattern some behaviors off of him. Hopefully he won’t develop toxic exhaustion and sleeping for days at a time, though.

Crowley is brushing out his hair when there’s a knock on the door, and he jumps terribly.

“Y-yes?” he gasps, holding his chest and panting.

“Are you decent?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley can hear the need bleeding from his voice through the door. _Well_.

He looks down at his boxer briefs and bra, and up at his pale reflection. “Yes?”

“May I come in?” he hears Aziraphale gently lean his head against the door. Crowley waves and the door pops open, causing Aziraphale to stumble in. Crowley smirks at him, pulling conditioner through his hair.

Aziraphale whimpers a little at him, eyes darting up and down. “You’re beautiful,” he husks it as if it’s a travesty.

“Ah yes,” he chuckles, and points at the angry circular welt visible even beneath the bandage with a sneer. “A dream come true,” he puts a wrist to his head and leans back against the sink, sighing dramatically.

“_Yes_,” Aziraphale growls with heat, and Crowley looks over at him, startled.

“Is-this, you want to come out?” Aziraphale puffs, gesturing at the bathroom which he recognizes as too tight for the demon to enjoy spending too much time in.

“Uhm,” Crowley pauses, eyes flicking over the flushed angel who keeps looking him over with something strong in his face, want tinged with something dark that he can’t place. “Sure,” he tilts his head, and walks out of the steamy bathroom towards him. Aziraphale holds his hands out, and pulls him close as he nears, sinking his head into his breast and making a soft keening noise in the back of his throat.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, raising a hand to pet his white ringlets. Aziraphale pulls him back, sinking into the bed and hugging him uncomfortably tightly, rocking back and forth.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks, gently carding his fingers through the angel’s hair as he begins sobbing into his chest and Aziraphale shakes his head, unable to put words to the gaping wound in his breast at the moment. Crowley cautiously reaches out, pressing out a small shard of his glamour so that the room becomes very dark even as the sun rises behind them and Aziraphale hugs him tighter, rocking and shaking.

They rock together for what seems like hours, Crowley softly crooning into Aziraphale’s ear, eventually singing softly in forgotten languages until Aziraphale’s finally able to fall back, breath still uneven with tears. Crowley curls himself around him, gentling the angel’s head on his breast and petting down his arms with long fingers.

“You were gone,” Aziraphale offers to the ceiling, shuddering at the memory. “You-you,” he turns and hugs Crowley to him again. Crowley gently shushes him, petting his hair. “You were so pale, like, like, b-bullets,” he gasps into Crowley’s chest, “and I couldn’t find you, _you were gone_, and there was holy water, and-and—” His voice catches and he whimpers, fingers knotting into Crowley’s hair as he desperately tries to get closer to the demon.

“I’m here,” Crowley whispers, kissing the crown of his head, “I’m here, angel.”

* * *

They stay in for most of the day, Crowley gently massaging Aziraphale’s back once the angel can bear to not be wrapped around him.

“I don’t like sleeping,” Aziraphale grumbles, looking like a puffy, grumpy child as he rubs at his cheeks. Crowley chuckles a little at that.

“Nightmares happen to everyone, angel,” he shrugs, “Sometimes you have nice dreams?”

Aziraphale huffs, shaking his head and settling into the wicker chair across from the beds. Crowley pulls his fingers through his hair, beginning to braid it idly, when Aziraphale raises a finger.

“What?” Crowley squints at him, holding a bobby pin between his teeth.

“Can I try?” he asks, gesturing and Crowley goggles at him, not understanding what he’s suggesting at all. “Your hair,” he huffs, making braiding motions with his fingers.

“Oh! Oh, uh,” Crowley pauses, and shrugs. “Sure?” He gets up and sits down with his back to the angel, pulling out the two bobby pins he’s already placed and fluffing out the beginnings of the braid he’d started. Aziraphale waves, producing a brush, and pauses, pushing it into Crowley’s view.

“This is… good right?” he offers, and Crowley chuckles. He takes it from him, changing the bristle length just a little and handing it back. “Thanks,” Aziraphale nods and gently begins brushing through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley sighs deeply, sinking back into his legs. Aziraphale smiles warmly as he notes Crowley’s increasingly languidness, brushing his hair out slowly and thoroughly.

“You know,” he sighs, setting the brush aside and gently bringing his fingers forth to begin sectioning the hair (it’s quite a bit easier with two pairs of hands). “I think I made your hair longer,” he whispers softly, kissing the back of Crowley’s head, “when I was sick.”

“Oh?” Crowley pauses, thinking back. “S’pose that makes… sense?” he shrugs. Miracles and temptations could be a little unwieldy when you tried to apply them to another magical creature, but Crowley had no issue with his hair being longer, so if Aziraphale pushed, his corporation would probably shrug and go, “Sure?”

“I hope you don’t mind,” he sighs, gently tying the braid with an emerald hair tie that he’s popped in from somewhere.

“It’s been enough time,” Crowley sighs, “I mostly had it short after the whole Nanny thing.”

“I’ll try to keep my miracles off it in the future,” he purrs, drawing his hands to Crowley’s neck and gently massaging. Crowley makes a strangled noise, a bit overstimulated by _four hands_ touching him. “Alright?”

“Just, uh,” he shivers away from him, “so many hands.” He rubs his elbows, and shudders some more.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale shrugs a little.

“I’ll get used to it,” Crowley chuckles. “Mostly just being groped by you all day and night, I think,” he giggles a little high.

“_Groped?_” Aziraphale leans his head on a hand, and gives him a conspiratorial smirk.

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Crowley sneers a little, putting a hand on his hip and flicking his forked tongue out at the angel. Aziraphale pops up from his seat just a little, grabbing Crowley by the elastic of his boxer briefs and pulling him to him as he stands up. He leans hard into the demon, kissing him and groping his behind with both hands.

“I think you need to revisit your definitions,” Aziraphale whispers darkly, eying Crowley’s flushed face and noting the slight tinge of panic there. He falls back into the wicker chair, tugging the demon into his lap. “Okay?” he asks, drawing a hand gentle over his breast bone and supporting the butt in his lap with another.

“Uhm,” Crowley blinks, struggling to keep up with the flow of time at the moment. “Yes?” he offers, looking down as Aziraphale fingers the two shiny scars left on his breast bone. “Ugh,” he sighs, throwing his head back.

“What?” Aziraphale asks, pausing to readjust the demon so that his bony butt is on his thigh.

“Don’t ask,” he gestures at his chest, and Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow, peering at the scars a bit closer now that the demon was making a fuss about them.

“They look like claw marks,” he notes, tracing them and noting the gooseflesh his fingers leave.

“Yeah, wonder why?” Crowley gripes, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. Aziraphale keeps gently petting them until Crowley sighs. “I…” he pushes out of Aziraphale’s lap and takes a few steps away, shaking himself. “When I remembered the whole… incubus thing,” he shifts his weight from foot to foot rapidly, sounding unhappy. “Uhm,” he grunts, rubbing at his face with his back to Aziraphale. He plucks up a shirt and wiggles into it and settles onto the bed across from Aziraphale. “Lucifer uh,” he sighs, “He had me pinned to this table, _runed_ to the table really, and uh, he’s fuckin’ huge, you know, could’ve crushed me.” His voice cracks a little and he rubs his elbow, frowning. “Just remembering it, I wasn’t thinking, and just,” he presses a hand to his chest softly, fingers blackening a little, but no claws this time. 

Aziraphale nods a little, rubbing his own jaw thoughtfully.

“Gabriel broke my jaw once,” he offers, shivering a little at the memory. “He’s uh, he’s pretty big, or he used to be,” he shrugs a little. Crowley pauses, stilling and watching him with an unblinking intensity. Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his face. “I was… behaving too human,” he sighs, eyes misting a little. He’d had to deal with multiple angels snarling at him as he tried to deal with the pain and fear of someone much larger throwing their weight around: _Gabriel didn’t mean to, **you** did this, if you weren’t acting like that…_

Crowley sighs, and chuckles a little. “We’re a fuckin’ mess,” he rubs his face.

“We have each other,” Aziraphale smiles at him softly.

“Yes,” Crowley nods, smiling. “We do, that.” 


	10. Chapter 10

They eat a hearty brunch at the hotel, and the food is fairly good. Perhaps not ‘genteel’ but delicious nonetheless. There’s a lot of children for Crowley to play with, wiggling fingers and making faces, and a few carolers jostle around as well.

They pack up and head out sometime after noon, Crowley easily pulling them into London without even having to stretch or miracle things.

Aziraphale rushes into the store, sighing happily. “Amazing to think you can miss a place so much,” he grins at the demon who’s looking around the shop with a soft smile.

“Good to be home, I’m sure,” he nods, and comes forward to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale pauses, eyes darting around his face. “Would you… would you like to stay for dinner?” he grins a little bashfully up at him, the flush of want in his cheeks making it clear that food isn’t entirely his desire, for once.

Crowley casts around a bit, shrugging his shoulders, _yes and no_. He notices the rubber plant looking a little wilted and refills the cup next to it and pours it in. “’m not hungry,” he shrugs, not meeting the angel’s eyes. He delicately plucks off the garlands, rubbing a little magic into the one or two discolored spots left behind.

“We don’t have to eat,” Aziraphale says softly, standing suddenly at Crowley’s elbow and meaningfully raking his eyes up and down over the demon in case his intentions are unclear. Crowley’s heartrate skyrockets, and he gulps a little thickly as he turns back around towards him, flushing.

Crowley folds his arms over his chest and considers the angel. “I’ll stay for an hour,” he offers, glancing at his watch, and Aziraphale’s face breaks out in a beam.

They tumble, ungainly, into the back of the bookstore, Aziraphale rapidly shedding the demon’s clothes as he pins him against various surfaces, their mouths never far from one another.

“You’re overdressed,” Crowley hisses, slitting his eyes and pawing off Aziraphale’s overcoat as the angel tosses off his bra and lays a wet kiss to his chest. Aziraphale pops off his waistcoat and pants irritably, suddenly scooping the demon up and dumping him onto the daybed. “Cripes, angel,” Crowley pants, flushing down his chest.

“You’re beautiful,” Aziraphale grunts into Crowley’s mouth. “Gorgeous, magnificent, lovely,” he kisses the words down his neck and Crowley makes choked noises in response.

“Uhm, Azira-Azira-ph-_phale_,” Crowley groans as he keeps kissing down his chest. “We’re-we’re, fuck!” he pants, looking stricken as the angel mouths at his cock through his underwear.

“The tests,” Aziraphale’s eyes pop open, and he growls desperately, headbutting the demon’s abdomen in frustration. Aziraphale is very good at toeing the line, following the letter of the law if not the intention, and he kind of hates that right now. He forces his head back up to Crowley’s and kisses him hard, making the demon whimper and squirm beneath him.

He pops his head back, roughly pulling down Crowley’s underwear, and wetly kissing his jaw. “When we get the results, Crowley,” he whispers close to his ear, brushing his lips over the brand as his hand begins delicately toying over his cock. “I’m going to have you in bed for a week,” he hisses and Crowley whines and pants, eyes going distant. Aziraphale waves his hand irritably, slathering himself in lube and Crowley howls, hands clamoring at his shoulders for purchase as Aziraphale begins meaningfully bringing his hand up and down.

“Angel-angel-angel,” Crowley pants. “Oh fuck, easy, easy,” he hisses, and bites down on his neck without thinking, overwhelmed and Aziraphale shudders and moans at that. _Oh right, pain_, Crowley remembers, as he’s finally able to think for a second. Aziraphale pants over him, hands no longer on him but braced on the couch around him, eyes suddenly wide and black, broadly dilated. Crowley takes advantage, kissing the angel’s seductively parted lips and dipping a hand under his underwear. Aziraphale jerks back to reality as the demon’s fingers twitch over his clit.

“No, no,” he grits, pushing Crowley down roughly. “I’m too close,” he growls, and brings two hands down onto Crowley’s cock, making the demon curl up and squeal.

“Stop, stop,” he whines, “easier, _easier_.” He roughly pushes the angel off of him and wraps his arms around his middle to suppress the shudders rocking him, a wet ache tight in his throat.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale pants, leaning his head on the demon’s shoulder. “You’re just so much,” he whimpers a little, tilting his head back and forth on Crowley’s shoulder childishly. “I want it all,” he chuckles as Crowley gives him a rueful look.

“_I’m _too much?” Crowley grumbles, and Aziraphale snickers at that, finally sitting back.

“Okay,” Aziraphale takes a deep breath. “I want you too much,” he offers and Crowley rubs his face, shuddering more. “Sorry,” he repeats, and Crowley shivers, taking a few deep breaths to sooth the anxiety rocketing through him. “Should I… can I do anything?” Aziraphale asks, leaning back on his haunches and showing his hands in peace.

“Well, I’m still hard so you can help with that,” Crowley growls darkly, frustrated. “In a moment,” he adds on quickly, eyes darting over to the angel with a grumpy expression as he keeps shivering. Aziraphale chuckles softly, looking a little sheepish.

“Let’s,” Crowley takes a deep breath. “Let’s try just kissing, first,” he offers with a prickly tone, shaking himself and drawing a bra and a shirt back onto his form. Aziraphale gives him a nod, looking flushed but open, ready to please. “I guess… I’ll start,” Crowley huffs, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he unspools his lanky limbs from where he’s coiled them, and leans over to the angel. He brings a hand up to his chin, softly drawing him closer, and brings their mouths together. He’s aware of Aziraphale’s hands making frustrated motions in his lap, and he chuckles.

“You’re gonna be the death of me angel, _easy_,” he hisses, eyes slitted at him fondly.

He gently drags a hand down his neck, clasping around the bite mark he’s left and Aziraphale groans and lurches forward into his lap at that. “Alright?” the angel whimpers, hands trembling before settling low on his shoulders.

“Delightful,” Crowley grins loosely up at him, looking like the cat that got the cream and nipping a kiss on his jaw. “Didn’t hurt you too badly?” he asks softly, thumbing the marks with a glinting, sly smile.

“_No_,” Aziraphale groans and grinds down into him with closed eyes and a bitten lip, knowing it’ll probably be too much but unable to help himself.

“S’good,” Crowley nips at his jaw, and wetly kisses at the bite mark, making Aziraphale throw his head back in a shaky, guttural moan.

“_Please_, Crowley,” he whines, rocking his hips back and forth, and Crowley’s breath hitches a little as he gains traction.

“Tell me what you want, angel,” he kisses wetly up his neck, under his jaw, inhuman tongue tickling the shell of his ear.

“Again,” he begs, eyes full of need as he pulls the demon’s head back from where he’s kissing everywhere but the bite.

“Kiss you again?” Crowley asks softly, wiggling his forked tongue at him teasingly, and Aziraphale whimpers loudly, flustered and overwhelmed by want. He pins Crowley with his mouth, grinding hard into him and shoving _BITE ME_ hard into his mind like a glittering brand.

Crowley laughs at the angel as he pulls back, baring his fangs and Aziraphale whines, wriggling his hips.

“If you insist,” he hisses, and gently tilts the angel’s neck up and slowly, punishingly, lays a bite hard enough to break the skin, just above the one he’d left earlier. Aziraphale tenses, hand tight in Crowley’s hair as he makes a strangled noise, hissing through his teeth as he pants and shudders on top of him.

“Ooohooh,” Crowley laves the wound, eyes soft as angel droops on top him, hips still rocking a little with aftershocks. “Would you look at that,” he purrs, kissing a little healing into the bitemarks so that they begin scabbing over.

“No, don’t,” Aziraphale pulls him off and looks at him wild-eyed.

“What about aftercare?” he teases, and Aziraphale flushes.

“I,” Aziraphale whines, looking over the demon’s lanky, perfect form with a flustered, pinched moue. “How do I go easy?” he looks up at him, pouting, and Crowley pops his head back, cackling.

“Oh, I suppose it’s not really in your vocabulary right now, is it?” he grins easily at him, relaxing slightly.

“Alright,” he sighs, “I’ll show you.” He gently kisses him, and takes one of his hands off of his shoulder and draws it slowly down his chest. He pushes his own shirt up with one of his hands, and Aziraphale follows the lead, pushing a hand under his bra and leaning deeper into the kiss. He curls his hand out and around, cupping Crowley’s breast and gently twitching a thumb over his nipple, and Crowley jumps a little and chuckles into the kiss. It’s easier to go slow when Aziraphale’s not so flustered, hot with his own need, so he gently pushes Crowley’s hand away after a bit and begins leading his other hand downward, kissing down the demon’s neck.

“There ah,” Crowley grunts as Aziraphale lays a hot palm against his stomach. His words evaporate as Aziraphale kisses up and down his throat, and very gently begins fingering his cock through his underwear.

“Just let me know if,” Aziraphale lays a wet, sucking kiss on the demon’s neck, and he grins as he feels his cock jump against his palm, “it’s too much.”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley huffs, a bit breathless as Aziraphale nips kisses around the hickie he’s just made and gently wiggles his hand under the elastic of his underwear. Aziraphale’s still a little slicked up, but he’s careful this time, gentle, pulling his cock out and softly rolling his hand up and down. He watches the demon’s eyes flutter closed as he picks up the pace carefully.

“Fuck, okay,” Crowley huffs, and Aziraphale pauses. “No, no, faster now,” he grits, and pulls Aziraphale’s mouth to his roughly. Aziraphale acquiesces, and is rewarded by Crowley shuddering and moaning into his mouth. He’s working up, close to the punishing pace that had forced Crowley to eject him last time, but Crowley is shivering and whimpering fractures of his name into his mouth this time, tears dotting his eyelashes.

He breaks the kiss and pants hard into Aziraphale’s neck, begging, “Don’t stop, don’t-don’t.” He tenses for a long moment, but doesn’t shudder over the edge, making a low frustrated noise.

“Stop?” Aziraphale asks, luxuriously dragging his fingers up along the underside of his cock.

“HHhh—Don’t,” Crowley growls, hand digging into his hair and shivering. He softly kisses the bites on his neck, panting with his eyes slitted and far away. Aziraphale withdraws his hand for a second, gently shaking his wrist and stretching it out, causing Crowley to flop back in frustration.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, and crosses his arms on his chest, looking flushed and grumpy.

“I have four hands, Crowley,” Aziraphale smirks, gently smearing lube onto one of his more bedazzled hands and Crowley huffs a laugh.

“Brag, why don’t y—_fuck_,” he growls, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulder hard and panting as he pistons two hands around him. The demon releases a string of epithets in a number of languages, but suddenly stops, eyes swirling out yellow and going distant before crimping shut and groaning low as he finally cracks over the edge.

“D-d-d, angel, _yesss_,” he grits, as Aziraphale keeps going, sinking to his knees before the demon as Crowley’s hips start going a bit crazy and it’s hard to stay on his lap. Aziraphale bites his lip, concentrating hard as Crowley’s panting gets a little frantic, weak laughter and hissing punctuating it as the angel rocks his palm over the head of his cock, other hand firmly holding him in place.

Crowley stills after a bit of this, eyes closed with his brow furrowed, forcing himself to endure Aziraphale’s fists working him over, breathing slow and labored. He makes a low guttural noise, claws digging into the couch as he rocks past the point that he’s comfortable with.

“N-neb-neb,” he manages to weakly stammer out, shivering a little, and Aziraphale quickly draws his hands back. Crowley sinks back into the couch, shuddering and releasing a long exhale, looking down at the startled angel. “Sorry…” he sighs. “Forgot… words,” he grunts, rubbing the tears off his cheeks.

“I mean, that’s the point of it,” Aziraphale chuckles a little nervously, drawing his hand over his cock one more time and causing the demon to hiss and jump. He gives him a saucy look as he begins cleaning his hands.

“You’re insane,” Crowley huffs, grinning widely with a slight anxious twinge.

“You seem to say things like that whenever we’re like this,” Aziraphale grins at him, purposefully missing his mouth a little and then locking eyes with the demon as he artfully licks up the mess from around his mouth. “Be careful, or I might start taking it personally,” he purrs as Crowley groans, eyes rolling back in his head with that same _oh god you’re gonna kill me_ look from last time.

Crowley laughs tiredly, and shyly offers, “I love you.”

Aziraphale pushes himself up, using the demon’s knees to bolster himself, and dusts himself off. “Darling,” he takes Crowley’s hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing the knuckles, “I couldn’t love you more.” 

They dress slowly, kissing softly through the process before stepping away to find an errant button or sock. Eventually Crowley is fully dressed, and shivering a little.

“How’re your arms?” Aziraphale asks.

“Eh?” he shrugs, “they hurt, but I can use ‘em.”

Aziraphale gives him a soft look, tidying books and papers that got mussed with their cavorting. “I think that was the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” he grins, insouciant.

“Angel,” Crowley groans suppressively. He rubs his face, and sighs. “S’pose I’ll go sleep for a bit.”

“I’ll call you in a few days, then,” Aziraphale nods, turning to pick up a discarded book.

“Love you,” Crowley gently hugs him from behind, startling him. He softly pats the demon’s arm, smiling and biting back the tears that spring forth at that.

“I love you, too, dear.”

* * *

Crowley sits in the Bentley for a while, after that, feeling… off about returning to his flat. His shop doesn’t have a bed though, and he needs a break from the angel’s company. They’ve spent like, _three days_ constantly in each other’s presence. It was nice, but there’s something jittering and jangling inside his chest and making his throat tight. He swallows, again, and heads home slowly. He’s not sure why, but he stops by a liquor store on the way home, boredly perusing the shelves until he fills a basket with two mediocre reds, a replacement for his half-drunk good bourbon, and three bottles of bad vodka.

The clerk doesn’t bat an eye like he should, and rings him through. New Year’s is coming up, so it could easily be for a party or something. He grits his teeth and cracks a bottle on the way home, attempting to dull the tight ache in his throat.

Crowley really hates the taste of vodka, especially shitty vodka like this. It’s just glorified lighter fluid, not suitable for consumption, human or otherwise. He’d picked up the vodka habit sometime during the space race, self-esteem reeling after the 1800s and then Aziraphale’s quip about speed. He’d already had millennia of drowning his sorrows in booze, but it hadn’t really, truly become a ritual until then. Or at least, that’s what he’s telling himself, determinedly not looking at certain very fuzzy centuries in his memory.

He pulls into the garage mindlessly again, and grumbles at himself. He roughly pulls back out, and parks in his spot on the street with some difficulty. There are some notes up on his floor about noisy electrical work over the next few days, but he can sleep through just about anything if he tries hard enough.

He shuffles into his flat, stuffing his new alcohol around where it belongs, keeping the one bottle he’s opened near at hand. He walks through his greenhouse, watering and tending with an odd indifference that makes some of the newer inhabitant’s quiver in confusion. He sorts through his mail, reading a long letter from, well, would you look at that, Aziraphale’s laywer, warning him against buying out the Soho block. He’ll have to reread his contract and draft something up, but maybe later.

He drops into bed, not bothering to shower, and downs half the bottle of vodka, struggling to prop it on his nightstand and sloppily falling asleep with his glasses on again. He’s not asleep face down this time, at least.

* * *

Aziraphale keeps the store closed for a few days after the holiday, working feverishly in his dungeon. A few more shipments arrived while he was out, and he devours them and begins dotting his new learning into the runes here and there. He’s beginning to think that maybe he should try summoning in a minor demon as a test, but he hasn’t worked up the nerve yet.

His support groups have a few extra meetings around this time of year with the stress of queerness and holidays, and he sublimates his quivering anxious energy into thumbing away tears and holding a few holiday dinners out and about for kids. Adam calls the Monday following Christmas, and regales him with stories of their revelry, inviting them to a New Year’s celebration at Pepper’s house.

“Are her parents aware that you’re inviting us?” Aziraphale is grinning a bit fondly in spite of his threaded tone.

“Of course,” Adam grins. “They asked us to invite you!”

Aziraphale pauses at that. He’s not sure that he’s met Pepper’s parents, really, so that’s a little curious. “Really?” he asks, suspiciously.

“Uhm,” he hears something indistinct as Adam covers the phone to talk to someone else. “Pepper’s little sister wants to see Crowley again,” Adam mutters, grumpy at being caught in a lie.

“Oh,” Aziraphale looks surprised. Crowley was definitely less than interested in Adam and his friends. He likes kids, sure, but there’s something about Adam’s aura that sets him on edge. He’s spent too much time wincing around Lucifer to feel comfortable around someone with a similar personality and magical feel. He appreciated the boy, certainly, gave him thoughtful gifts and gently talked him through managing his magic when he was stressed, but he mostly spent his time entertaining the parents while Aziraphale cavorted enthusiastically around with Them. Aziraphale’s never really dealt with someone so young and magically precocious, and he’s a bit giddy with it. He tends to lavish Adam and his friends in attention, and they really don’t mind his unfiltered enthusiasm and autonomous respect.

“I’ll make sure we’re there,” he smiles.

Adam has to go after that, finish some housework or something, and Aziraphale tidies up a bit, starting badly as the post is dropped through the slot. There’s a lot of it, plenty of junk about post-Christmas sales and New Year’s, New Deals!! He fishes out two soft gray envelopes from the pile with his name and address typewritten on them and stamps fifty years out of date pressed into them. Limbo tries, but it’s difficult keeping up with the times when everyone who works there is inevitably dead, and thus, not particularly with ‘it.’

Aziraphale tosses the rest of the stack on his desk, and fishes out his bone letter opener, jiggling it under the thick paper envelope. The envelope has a nice weight with a bit of texture to it, and he fingers it with a soft smile as he pulls the first letter out. He’s already received a set of paperwork like this, just summarizing what he’d spent a half-hour filling out to ensure that he hadn’t made any mistakes. This looks a bit like that, and it takes a moment for him to realize that, no, it’s the results of the core sample.

He’d originally listed himself as ‘Angel – Principality,’ and his doctor had chuckled a little, and made him cross it out, insisting he put down his original designation.

“I wasn’t an Archangel of filing,” he’d gritted, glaring daggers at the bearded man. “There—we weren’t—the titles weren’t like that back then!”

He’d waffled on writing cherub just to spite the man, but had eventually given in and put down, ‘Angel – Principality, Archangel (prior).’ Apparently, the core sample highlighted the Archangel as a bit higher than the Principality, as they’ve reorganized his designation again. There was also an asterisk, with a note of ‘Angel – Other.’ _Strange,_ he huffs, shaking himself a bit to release the tension he’s unconsciously holding. It’s just titles and labels, not really anything to concern himself over. He leans against the desk and pours over the rest of the minutiae, rather a lot detailing what he might be capable of, which he doesn’t find helpful at all. He knew he could perform miracles, temptations, and a myriad of other things, and didn’t need a core sample to remind him that he was especially good at curing the blind.

Overall, the findings show him to be in fair health, if interestingly immune to hellfire. There’s a small scrip stapled to the back for the lotion his doctor had recommended. He tucks the documents back into the envelope, setting it aside from the pile to eventually file away in a secure cabinet somewhere. He wiggles the letter opener under the second envelope, this one a little less bulky. He unfolds the letter, a basic, system-generated thing which details the tests he’d taken, declaring that he was free of STDs, human or otherwise, if a little iron deficient.

He beams, unable to control his overwhelming enthusiasm at this. _Finally_. He pulls on his great coat, stuffing the letters in a pocket, and unspools a scarf. It’s been snowing the last few days, leaving dirty slush and ice around, and his breath billows out in front of him as he bursts out of the shop.

* * *

Crowley wakes up early Monday morning, grumpy with another thin bruise on his cheek left over from his glasses. He’s seriously considering miracling himself some pince-nez at this point, but he pushes his current wrap-arounds on as a punishment. _If you don’t want wearing glasses to hurt, maybe don’t wear them to bed, **idiot**. _

He begins picking and choosing a second set of plants to pull into the shop, lugging them out carefully. It’s looking like it’ll probably take five trips. He’s considering dumping the sordid sculpture in a corner of the back somewhere as there’s space for it there, too. The eagle lectern might be nice in a separate corner as well, but he’s a little too fond of it in his home at the moment.

He thumbs through a few voicemails left by Warlock, just detailing his Christmas. He sometimes just writes Crowley long emails or leaves long, winding voicemails, noting at the end that he doesn’t have to respond, he just likes having someone who’ll actually listen. Crowley’s got the emails printed out and saved somewhere and keeps meaning to write him a letter in response, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.

He’s sipping some freshly ground coffee, considering whether he feels like making up one of his fish steaks, when the mail comes. It technically pops into a locked box downstairs, but he’d accidentally left things in there for years wondering where his one-of-a-kind, Corinthian leather jacket he’d ordered months ago was, so he’s put in a charm that makes it so that the box links with his end-table near the front door.

He filters through the junk mail, tossing it in a bin that shreds it and _fwoomps_, burning the shreds to ash that he might mix into his potting mix if he feels like it. He’s gotten three letters from Limbo, and rocks a little in indecision, considering just shredding them and ignoring it. _Don’t feel like dealing with it today_. He plucks off his glasses in irritation; it’s dim in his hallway and his head is hurting too much to keep punishing himself. He slices through the top of the envelope with a black claw, and pulls out the first letter. It’s the one detailing the results of his tests: STD free, deficient in a quite a number of things really.

He huffs a sigh, his chest growing leaden at that. _Well_, _this is good_, he grimaces, sliding a claw into the second envelope. _This is a good thing_, he keeps telling himself, scanning the docket with information from his core sample. He’s very relieved to see “Demon – Other” still listed at the top, and idly flitters through the twelve pages of further documentation. There’s nothing highlighted that suggests he’s starting to turn into an angel, or that he has a severe magical impurity or something affecting his ability to get restful sleep.

He leans his elbows down on the end table, jittering a thumb through the final letter. It’s a simple request for him to set up another appointment following up on the test results. Callahan has left a handwritten note in the corner, begging him to make it sometime in the next year rather than waiting another sixty this time.

He sighs, leaning his head forward and digging his hands through his hair. He sort of just wants to be alone for a bit. He can’t really describe why, and it probably won’t be good for him as he’ll probably be drinking and moping about at this point.

He’s fairly certain that if he’s received his letter, Aziraphale will have gotten his too, and his stomach clenches at that. He makes a frustrated noise, _I’m not ready, _he thinks as he thumbs at his eyes, and quickly folds up the papers and walks back into his kitchen, tossing them on his countertop. He plucks the half-full vodka out of his room grumpily and walks back to his kitchen, sucking it down.

He sputters a little, setting the empty bottle on the sink, but he doesn’t give himself a break, dragging down a second bottle and wrenching off the cap. He manages to down a quarter of that bottle before it starts hitting him, and he swoons, coughing hard and retching. _This is what you get_, something slick, oily, and dark sneers in his head, and he wipes his mouth, wincing. He dutifully, trembling and hissing in distaste, downs more of the bottle, cradling his head and hoping, _hoping_ against hope that he’ll be so soused that he can glide easily against Aziraphale’s needs.

* * *

Aziraphale stops by the pharmacy first, happily filling his prescription, and then stops by a few markets, buying a delightful champagne, some rosy candles, a box of chocolates. It’s going to be a night to remember, and for once, he’s going to be allowed to tempt the demon, not just to lunch, but to that heady, aching _more_ that he’s been trembling at for well… ages at this point.

He pops in at home, and begins calling Crowley. It takes him a bit to answer, and he sounds… congested once he answers.

“H’lo?” he sputters.

“Oh, did I wake you up?” Aziraphale coos into the phone.

“N-no,” he mutters, and he hears him rub his nose, sleeve brushing the receiver.

“Is it okay if I stop by?” his saucy grin clicks in his cheeks, and Crowley mumbles a little indistinctly. “Crowley?”

“Yeah,” Crowley coughs a little, “Yeah, sure.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Aziraphale asks, quirking a hip against his desk. There’s a pause, and he gets the sense that Crowley’s just shrugged ineffectually.

“Yeah?” he hears a tinkling of glass in the background, and Crowley coughs again. Aziraphale rubs his chin, considering.

“I’ll be by in a bit,” he offers, curling the cord around his fingers anxiously.

“S’ya,” he slurs, and the line goes dead. Aziraphale considers the dial tone in his hand for a moment, drumming his fingers on the desk. His arm is mostly better by this point, the flesh where the disc had been popped out mostly sealed over and just a little tight and tender. Perhaps it had been rougher on the demon?

His stomach sinks as he realizes perhaps… perhaps Crowley’s tests had come out differently? Crowley would probably have a very bad reaction to learning that he was becoming an angel again, if he was to make an assumption. Yes, Aziraphale had hoped and dreamed that perhaps they could whisk away from politics if Crowley managed to ascend, but really, he knew it was too much to ask. Besides, at this point, it’d be moot what with everything that’s happened.

Still, if that was the case, it would change things quite a bit, wouldn’t it? Someone else would have to fall, wouldn’t they?

He rubs his face, sighing. _No point in idle speculation_, he grumbles, and tucks his bags under his arm and heads out.

* * *

Crowley’s starting his third bottle, half-lidded eyes perusing the old contract he’d written up for Aziraphale nearly a century ago. He’d fallen over twice while digging around for it, but he needed something to do other than sit there stewing in anxious anticipation. There’s a knock at his door, and he falls out of his chair with a start. He waves to open it, knowing it’s Aziraphale, and struggles back into his seat, jerking forward to keep the vodka from toppling over where it’s spinning in a wibble-wobble.

“Oh,” Aziraphale pauses in his front hallway, champagne in hand, a large lavender chrysanthemum in a pot tucked under an arm with a few other things bulging out from under his arms. “I uh,” he takes in Crowley’s sodden demeanor, empty vodka bottles strewn about, “I see you started without me.”

Crowley shrugs a little, hugging the vodka bottle to his chest and looking a little sick. Aziraphale waves to shut the door behind him, and walks up to the counter across from the demon, setting down his gifts. He notes the limbo-gray envelopes on the countertop, and gulps a little.

“Uhm,” he peers at what Crowley’s poring over, a little confused to recognize the contract for his shop. “I got my letter from Limbo, about the tests,” he offers quietly, “I see you got yours?”

Crowley nods a little, pushing the contract away and resting his heavy head in his hands. “May I take a look?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley sighs heavily because it’s the tone he uses when he wants to check him over for wounds.

“Yus,” he slurs, waving the papers close to him. He scrubs his face with his hand, struggling with nausea as the room spins terribly.

Aziraphale peers over the STD sheet, not what he’d been looking for but the top thing on the pile that Crowley’s shifted towards him. He frowns at the number of deficiencies, along with the asterisks that all note that these may or may not be normal for a demon of his particular make up. He sets it aside after a second, and pulls out the thick docket he’d been more interested in. He frowns as he notes the “Demon – Other” plain at the top.

“They seem to like this ‘Other’ business,” Aziraphale mutters, flipping through the numerous sheets documenting Crowley’s capacity to create various pieces of the universe from scratch, among other things.

“Hm?” Crowley coughs, rubbing his nose.

“Demon – Other, Angel – Other,” he waves a hand.

“Oh,” Crowley rocks back in his seat, capping the vodka as he pushes it away. He winces a little as it rolls away from him, toppling off the counter, but not cracking into pieces thankfully. “We started it, ‘think,” he rubs his numb lips and squints in thought. “Y’lot ‘re like, _seraphim, cherub…bim_,” he waves. “We‘re like, _no_, ’m jus’ a fuckin’ demon,” he hiccups a little.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods, smoothing out the wrinkles that Crowley has creased into the papers. He considers Callahan’s note with a slight frown. “I suppose I should try to catch up,” Aziraphale sighs, gesturing the vodka bottle that’s rolled onto the floor into his hand.

“Oh, oh,” Crowley shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, y’don’t, ‘s bad,” he cringes. Aziraphale peers at the bottle, grimacing at the brand and the strong odor.

“I’ll say,” he grunts, but pops his head back and takes a long drink.

“Y’don’t,” Crowley grumbles, wiggling the bottle out of Aziraphale’s hand as he stops drinking. “’S not for drinking,” he coughs, swirling the cap back on and making to set it on the counter behind him, out of reach of the angel, but he falls back, cracking his head on the countertop and yelping as he crashes to the floor.

The ceiling swirls above him until Aziraphale’s face pops in front of his eyes, and then that starts swirling as well. “What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale huffs, squatting down to pick the demon up and check over his head. It’s not bleeding, but he’ll probably have a goose egg there tomorrow.

Crowley swoons a little in his arms, feeling sick. “Angel,” he huffs, and clumsily pulls himself up, accidentally pulling Aziraphale onto him. His yellow eyes dart over Aziraphale’s face, and he gulps. _Now or never_.

“Crowl—?” Aziraphale starts as Crowley sloppily pushes his mouth to his. He wetly kisses down Aziraphale’s neck, and roughly begins tugging off his own pants, pulling Aziraphale’s hands to him. Aziraphale’s head is swimming, a bit overwhelmed as the demon uses his teeth, gently, around his jugular, and pushes the angel into his counter.

“Crowley??” he huffs, hands scrabbling and pulling at the demon’s hair as he roughly unbuttons his waistcoat and shirt. He needs to see his face, something is wrong, _something is wrong_, but Crowley keeps ducking his head and forcing Aziraphale’s hands around his waist, urging him to grope. “Crowley, stop, _stop,_” he growls as Crowley’s fingers begin dipping under his waistband, curling to dive into his boxers. The demon pants with his head pressed against his chest, eyes downcast, but he’s dutifully stopped as requested.

“Y’want this,” he hisses, eyes ticking up to Aziraphale’s for a brief second before ticking away, vibrating with something intense.

“What?” Aziraphale huffs, trembling a little. Crowley is very cold, his touch is icy on Aziraphale’s flesh, and the demon is starting to shudder a bit with the effort of holding all this together.

“Don’t stop me,” he grimaces, staring hard at Aziraphale’s lips with a curled lip before finally pinning him with a kiss that stings of vodka.

Crowley suddenly finds himself tied, wrists and ankles, sitting on his couch and tipping sideways. Aziraphale pants and readjusts his skewed clothes on a section of his couch that he’s quickly pulled aside.

“That is enough of _that_, dear boy,” Aziraphale huffs, looking the demon up and down disdainfully. “_What_ do you think you’re doing?” he asks, and quickly miracles the ties away as he notes how Crowley keeps staring at them, stiff and pale.

“Uhm,” Crowley quickly curls in on himself, shuddering. He digs his hands into his hair and Aziraphale notes the claws there and quickly walks over to roughly pull his hands away.

“Stop,” he barks, locking eyes with the trembling demon. “I _don’t_ want you to hurt yourself,” he twines their fingers, and pulses a little magic at him, soothing.

“C-can’t,” Crowley wrenches his hands away as if burned, and hugs himself. He sobs into his arms, rocking back and forth a bit.

Aziraphale settles back on the separated chunk of couch, worrying at a small poke the demon’s left on one of his hands, mind churning over what could possibly be going on. Cradling the demon to his chest like at the bookshop probably isn’t the best idea this time, and he’s honestly still a little bewildered at Crowley roughly throwing himself at him, reeking of something forlorn and desperate.

“Do you think you can sober up?” he asks softly, as Crowley’s sobs ease for a second, his breath still threaded with a shivering whine.

Crowley takes a deep breath, and tries. They’ve both done it plenty of times, but it takes a lot of concentration, and it hurts this time. He falls back on the couch, panting and splaying out, aching all over and still a little tipsy to boot. His eyes are still blurred and his head is hurting like someone’s ringing a gong right next to him repeatedly. He makes a few soft slurring noises which Aziraphale tries to parse, unsure if he’s succeeded in sobering up or not.

Crowley lurches up, and immediately regrets it, going pale and covering his mouth. Aziraphale grabs him by the shoulder, launching them into his bathroom, and pushing Crowley to the toilet. He vomits and shudders, crying and whining through it. As the retching eases, he pops away from Aziraphale’s hand drawing soothing circles on his back and stalks into his kitchen.

“Crowley! Don’t you dare run away from me!” Aziraphale skids to a halt in front of the doorway to Crowley’s front hall, and Crowley gives him a doleful look, holding a soft cold compress to the back of his head as he cracks a mint between his fangs. He leans back against his counter, wincing, and snaps, cinching his pants back on.

“Y’got me here,” he offers, gesturing at himself, looking exhausted and still tremoring with shivers. “What’s up, angel?” his lips curl into a sneer as he toys with the remains of the mint in his mouth.

Aziraphale makes a rough, frustrated noise, and two of his wings stutter out as he struggles to contain the jangling of emotions in his chest. “What in the world do you think you’re doing? _What is wrong with you?_” he huffs, and Crowley gives him a loose, self-deprecating grin at that.

“Everything?” he offers, chewing his lip with fangs, and leering as Aziraphale fumes at that.

Aziraphale turns around, clenching and unclenching his fists and shivering with rage. “_I_ _love you_, you colossal and _utter_ buffoon,” he huffs, tears in his voice. “Can you take this seriously? _For once?_ I-I walk in here, and you’re, you’re three sheets to the wind, and you won’t tell me why and then you, you,” he’s gesturing widely, wings instinctively ducking to and fro as he paces in and out of the doorway. He makes a tight, frustrated noise, gripping the door casement with a white-knuckled hand. “Why won’t you let _anyone_ help you?”

Shivers break out in Crowley’s body at that, and he slides nearly a foot down on the counter. “Don’t need help,” he shrugs, voice going dark. There’s a loud crack as Aziraphale’s grip splinters the doorway, and he glowers at it, shivering, and yanks his hand back, waving to right it irritably.

“We both know that’s not true,” he snarls, silver eyes piercing at the demon.

Crowley rocks his shoulders a little, coughing back a sob. “Uhhh,” he hisses irritably at himself. “Fine,” he sighs, stiffly pulling himself up from the counter and stalking back to his couch. He plunks down, settling the ice behind his head and crossing his arms over his chest, looking sullen. Aziraphale takes a few heaving breaths, attempting to calm himself as well and managing to tuck his wings back in. His second set of arms are stuck, clenching and unclenching, but it’s better than nothing.

“Is it me?” Aziraphale mutters, thunking himself into the seat kitty-corner to him.

Crowley sighs, tightening his grip on his own arms where he’s crossed them. “No,” he sighs, after a moment, “Just me, being a fuck up. Like usual.”

Aziraphale palms his face, sighing deeply at that. “Oh, am I wrong?” Crowley sneers in a sing-song voice. “Please, Aziraphale, you’d…” his voice strangles in his throat.

“What?” Aziraphale peers over at him from behind his hand.

Crowley can’t even force himself to say it, though some dark part of him has been jeering it, deep down, for a while. _You’d be better off with someone else. Leave me, go on_, **_do it_**. He roughly rubs his nose and burns a little healing into his shredded lip. “I…” he stretches his hand, grimacing, shaking off the claws with some trouble. “I’m not worth it,” he manages, voice tight, grumbling and rubbing at the tears on his cheeks.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, and leans his head down, digging his hands into his own hair. “I _don’t care_ if you think you’re worth it,” he grumbles at his knees. “I love you. You’re stuck with me.” Crowley yawps a wet laugh at that. “If you’ll have me,” Aziraphale adds ruefully, shrugging his shoulders.

“’Course,” Crowley inhales deeply. “You’re just…” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Better?” he shrugs, wiggling a hand.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale harrumphs. “I’m a terrible angel, you know that,” he pushes himself upright, looking rueful. “Surprised I still am, honestly.”

“B-but,” Crowley starts, and Aziraphale shakes his head, putting up a hand to stop him. “Enough, enough, we’ll be here all night,” he chuckles darkly.

Crowley takes a shaky inhale, blinking at the wall. “I’m not ready,” he offers very quietly, carefully watching the carpet in front of Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale looks up at him, surprised. “What if I’m never ready?” he growls, gruffly cracking his knuckles and forcing his claws back in. “Should’ve picked someone more…” he waves his hand, not meeting the angel’s eyes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, eyes on the light-grey carpet, “I’m happy just to be with you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he grunts, popping up and beginning to pace near his window. Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise, and flops back in his chair, watching him. “I want to,” he growls, his pace tight and stiff to go with his tight voice. “I’ve wanted to for—” he makes a low, inhuman noise, and throws up his arms.

“We can take our time, dear,” Aziraphale offers. “You know that’s the whole _reason_ we have a safe-word?” he smirks, and Crowley grumbles.

“I don’t want to,” he grumbles, pacing in a tighter circle, stretched taut with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“What?” Aziraphale pops forward in his chair, confused by the sudden change in rhetoric.

“I can’t say no to you, angel,” he sighs, and he loops his pacing circle around the couch to pick up the ice and bring it back to his head.

“Yes, you can?” Aziraphale gives him a bewildered look. “You have? You do?”

Crowley grumbles, looking away from him. “I would really rather not, I-I-I don’t, I don’t want to _rape you_,” he shivers a bit in his seat, looking horrified at the prospect, replaying Crowley’s cold desperation in hyper speed in his mind: _Don’t stop me_. “I love you, I don’t, I wouldn’t,” he winces, and his breathing starts getting away from him, ratcheting up into a terrified panting.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley freezes in place. “No, it’s, it’s not like that,” he gulps. “No, I, no, angel,” he sinks to his knees in front of Aziraphale who’s covered his face in his hands, shuddering and huffing in a full-scale panic attack. “Please, no, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_,” he doesn’t want to touch, terrified he’ll set him off, but his arms are still gimpy, so as he’s trying to tremor around him, he screws up and clamps a hand over Aziraphale’s knee, causing the angel to jump and wail.

“P-please,” Aziraphale pulls his hands away from his tear-stained face. “Crowley no, I can’t.” He pushes up from the chair and stalks away from the demon, shivering. Crowley grumbles, curling around the seat Aziraphale’s just vacated. “I _will not_ be the source of your nightmares,” Aziraphale growls tightly, back to the demon. He turns around, silver eyes bright, “You’ve got to promise me, you’ll tell me. If it’s too much, _tell me_.”

Crowley looks between the floor and Aziraphale’s face, expression weary. “Sometimes I don’t know myself,” he offers, toying with his hair idly with the hand he’s thrust on the chair, forearm stuck up.

“Yes, I,” Aziraphale rubs his face, expression sour. “Processing, I know,” he jeers. “I just, I can’t bear the thought of you feeling like you had to do that. For me! I want us to be happy, Crowley. I love you, and I _want _you, but if that hurts you, then… then no,” he starts pacing back and forth near Crowley’s counter, chewing on his thumb.

Crowley goes incredibly still, and Aziraphale feels something magical shatter in the vicinity. It feels like the thing he’d feared in the shop when Crowley had popped up from his fainting couch with his wings thrust out, tire iron in hand, something frail and black slipping through his fingers like water. “No, no, _NO_,” Aziraphale stomps towards the demon as the room starts swirling in darkness, growing taller and sprouting out wings as he collars the demon who’s falling down a black hole of despair.

“_Don’t_,” he growls, “_Don’t you dare, you insufferable serpent. I will wrench your soul from the sulfur pools with my own hands if you make me_.”

Crowley blinks, shivering up at him with too many yellow eyes in his stubbornly human face. Aziraphale hauls him up, shunting himself back into the seat he’d recently vacated and pulling Crowley into his lap. He leans his head into the demon’s neck, panting away tears.

“I love you. How many times do I have to say it before you believe me?”

Crowley shivers, taking a long, shuddering breath. He gently draws an awkwardly formed, reptilian and human arm and puts it around Azirphale’s back.

“Could take a few more,” he offers, softly, leaning his chin on Aziraphale’s crown and gently rubbing the angel’s back. “Hard to believe you could…” he heaves a deep sigh. “I just want to make you happy, angel. ‘S all I want in the world,” he mumbles, “Forget myself sometimes, gets in the way.” He waves his hand, shaking it back into a more human shape, though still ebony from the elbow down.

“Perhaps we should both go to therapy,” Aziraphale grouses into Crowley’s collar. “Separately, I mean,” he coughs.

Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “I just need some time,” he grunts. “I…” he looks around the flat, and closes his blurring eyes. “I love you so much it…” he hugs Aziraphale’s head to his chest, unconsciously leading the angel in, front-row seats to a hauntingly large chasm, millennia old and aching the whole way down. “I can’t lose you again,” he growls, lips curled as tears drip down his chin.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale brings his hands up to hug the demon’s shoulders. “I’m here, I’m not leaving.” Crowley rocks a little, crying and holding the angel as he holds him right back.

“I… I didn’t mean… that,” Aziraphale offers lamely after a bit, pulling back as Crowley snuffles. “I just…” he rubs his own face and sighs, “I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you like that.”

Crowley nods a little, rubbing his nose. “I get it,” he offers. “I’m broken,” he sneers, and Aziraphale throws his arms up in exasperation.

“Crowley, if you do not start showing yourself some respect, I…” he makes a terribly frustrated noise.

“Oh, go on,” Crowley smirks, expression softening. 

“We’ll take it slow,” Aziraphale rubs his face, sidestepping Crowley’s self-deprecation. “You may have to… remind me a few more times.”

“Sure,” Crowley shrugs his shoulders, sniffing and working to lighten up a little. He gently runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. “It’s nice just to touch you,” he sighs, kissing Aziraphale’s forehead, “We couldn’t before.”

Aziraphale nods, and gently leans his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “So,” Aziraphale sighs, “you were getting drunk because of… me?”

Crowley grumbles a little, rocking back and forth. “Been feelin’… off,” he sighs. “Need to renovate or, I dunno,” he rubs his face with a hand. “It’s… a lot has changed in the last year, and…” he exhales deeply. He stretches and pops off of Aziraphale’s lap, loopily flopping onto the couch.

“It’s good. Most of it’s good,” he offers, gesturing upwards with his hands. Aziraphale watches him with his chin in his hands. “Just… a lot. A lot to process.”

Aziraphale sighs, tilting his head at the demon. “I always felt like you were better at that than me, you know.” Crowley makes a soft, derisive noise at that. “No, I mean, I’m still digging through literature from what, five centuries ago? I’m always behind,” he waves.

“I think…” Crowley rubs his eyes hard, with the heels of his hands. “I think I just got good at stuffing it down, pretending.”

Aziraphale huffs a little laugh at that, “Healthy.” Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Oh,” Crowley stretches out, cricking and cracking. “How’d your tests come out?”

“Still an angel,” Aziraphale smiles, and pulls the papers from his coat, offering them.

“Hoof, archangel?” Crowley raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale, looking impressed.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale waves his hand dismissively.

“Ohhhh,” Crowley tips his fingers on his lips and squints at him, putting some pieces together. “Raphael, huh?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale makes a gesture encompassing himself.

“Huh,” Crowley tweaks his head to the side, and idly flips through the pages detailing Aziraphale’s various, supposed skills. “Wait, so,” he squints at Aziraphale, “how does that work? Shouldn’t Gabriel be like, slavering over you?”

Gabriel was one of the younger archangels, and in the beginning, he had made a name for himself sopping over anyone larger or more powerful than him, and the reputation has stayed with him in spite of all the time that’s passed. He’d turned out to be a bit more than what anyone had expected though, somehow managing to set the board such that he stood at the fore as the obvious and most powerful leader and those that he had groveled before were forced to kneel before him. He has an eerie way of getting his way, even if his way is immoral, incorrect, or otherwise incongruent with his supposedly high and mighty position. Most of heaven is uncomfortable taking a deeper look into his methods because he has a habit of implicating and subtly tripping up those who take too keen an interest in him and his methods.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, chuckling softly. “I think… they forgot that a title is just a title,” he gestures. “I got demoted to cherubim, then principality, and so on, and they just… kind of…” he heaves a deep sigh.

“I guess if you keep calling someone something, you start to believe it,” Crowley rubs his nose, still perusing the paperwork.

“Yeah,” Aziraphale gently taps his fingers against each other, steepling back and forth. Crowley sighs, handing the papers back and rubbing his face tiredly.

“Should kill ‘im,” he grumbles, and shifts upright, wincing and holding his head as the room spins a little.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale ejects suppressively.

“What? You didn’t see him,” he grouses. “Angels are so _petty_,” he grimaces. “I know Beelzebub was just like, _fuck you_. Once I’d proven I could wiggle out of it again, they’d just be like well _fuck this, fuck you, get the fuck out_.” Aziraphale chuckles at that.

“It did sort of play out like that,” he nods.

“I dunno what it is, they’re so self-righteous, grinning while they stab you in the back,” he shudders, “Sooo glad I’m not turning.” He roughly knocks his legs off the couch and waves to pull the ice pack back from where he’d hurled it earlier.

“Well, I think we ought to leave them alone,” Aziraphale adds a little petulantly as he toys with his pinky ring.

Crowley chuckles a little. “Oh? Like they left _us_ alone?”

Aziraphale sighs, rolling his head around and glaring at him. “Look, it’s… Gabriel put out this memo. No one’s supposed to go near me or even look at me,” he laughs a little high, not meeting Crowley’s skeptical gaze. “You have to take all these steps if you’re going to try anything, y’know,” he waves a little.

“You have to get his and Beelzebub’s signatures if you want to do anything,” Aziraphale’s mouth twists around uncomfortably as he stares resolutely at his own hands.

“Oh, how interestin’,” Crowley drums his fingers on his knee. “Can I see?”

“Uh,” Aziraphale frowns at him. “Sure?”

Crowley grins loosely at him, “Heaven sucks at contracts, angel. If Beelz is in on it, then…” He shrugs a little, indecisive. “Won’t be surprised if there’s loopholes the size of Saturn’s rings, though, he’s…” he shakes his head. “Uriel and Sandolphon, eh,” he gestures, “but I swear Gabriel isn’t going to let this go that easily.”

Aziraphale grumbles a little, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ll get you a copy,” he huffs.

“Good,” Crowley smirks.

“Oh, uhm,” Aziraphale starts. “I was talking to Adam this morning,” Crowley nods, raising his brows. “They uh, want us to stop by for New Year’s.”

Crowley shrugs a little, “Sure, why not?” Aziraphale heaves a relieved sigh at that.

“Uh, it’s at Pepper’s? Have you talked to the Finlay’s before?”

Crowley nods, wincing and readjusting the ice pack. “They’re nice. Mom’s remarried, and the little one, Skye, sweet kid with a big imagination.”

“Skye, right,” Aziraphale snaps; he’d completely lost the girl’s name. “Adam said she wanted to see you again.” Crowley looks a little surprised at that.

“Huh,” he shrugs a little.

Aziraphale watches the demon for a bit as he looks tired and glum. “Well,” Aziraphale pushes himself up. “It’s on Thursday, so we have some time.” He gently pats Crowley on the shoulder, walking past him. He sighs as he reaches the counter and walks back to the couch. “Can I…” he grumbles, hand compulsively palming his curls. “Would you mind if I gave you a protection charm?”

Crowley quirks his head at him, confused. “Uh…” he rubs his hand unconsciously. “I mean, sure? Maybe you could leave out the whole, ‘Aziraphale’s boytoy,’ thing this time, though,” he waves and Aziraphale turns bright red.

“_Pardon me?”_

“What, like I didn’t notice?” Crowley smirks, chuckling a bit. “Whenever you do it, there’s always this big glowing sign like, ‘Not Yours, Property of One Angel – Aziraphale.’”

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise and walks away from the couch to pace rapidly in front of the demon and sputter. “Uhm, well,” he stutters. “I uh, I was thinking of something else,” he manages after a moment.

“Uh huh,” Crowley rubs his jaw.

“More like… an accessory, something…” he shakes himself and forces himself to sit again. “When… after the hellhound, I couldn’t find you at all, and… I imagine it was like that with the bookstore burning as well,” he adds softly, pausing at the dawning realization of just how horrible that would’ve been for the demon.

Crowley sniffs, “Yeah. Yeah, I see where you’re going with this.”

“Would you be okay with something like that, dear? I know having just raw charms on you can be a bit much,” Aziraphale turns towards him, face still pinked but finally meeting his eyes.

“Sure,” he shrugs. “I’m making you one too, though,” he points at the angel and smirks.

“O-oh, well,” Aziraphale blushes and watches as Crowley squints at his hands, drawing the ebony etheric quality back to them. He dips a claw into his palm, drawing out a long black chain made of the iridescent black of his true form’s scales.

He peers at Aziraphale, considering, “I know most of your rings are just glamour. You used to wear rings though, right?” Aziraphale shrugs a little, settling back onto the couch. “Could make you earrings, a bangle, a necklace,” he gestures, kneading the black material between his fingers and making metallic crunchy noises as he shapes it

“A ring is fine, dear,” Aziraphale gives him a small smile, watching him work. Crowley concentrates hard on the material, sizzling it from stark black into something more like a gray flecked meteorite with a thin ribbon of the black iridescence left in the middle. He flicks it off of his palm into the air, and it hisses, cooling rapidly and setting.

“It should have a snake on it, shouldn’t it?” Aziraphale gives him a wry smile and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Sure,” he laughs fondly, and catches it as it falls. He expands the thin black line, growing it outward so that a vein of the material curls around the ring, honestly a little more draconic than serpentine. He makes it so that the snake is ridged out on one side, ideally the side pointed outwards, the other side of the ring just holding a thin vein of the black material.

“Better?” he quirks his eyebrows at Aziraphale, and holds the ring between his forefinger and thumb. Aziraphale has tremulous excitement plain on his face, and makes to take it from him, but Crowley pulls it into his fist away from the angel’s grab. He brings his knuckles to his lips, closing his eyes and wrapping a few spells into the ring before unfurling his palm and offering it.

Aziraphale gently takes it, turning it this way or that to catch the purples and greens in the scale-material. He slides it, smirking just a little, onto his left ring finger and Crowley makes a soft wondering noise at that. Aziraphale sighs as it settles on him, relaxing a bit.

“Alright?” Crowley asks, nervously drumming his fingers on his knee.

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale nods. Crowley feels him gently palm the enchantments, and it feels like a hand on his chest, a whisper of _thank goodness, there you are_. Aziraphale untucks one of his second pair of hands, and wriggles the fingers, judging. After a bit of back and forth, he pinches the first knuckle off of the index finger of his right hand, and rolls it between his palms like a bit of clay.

“I’ll make it so that it changes, as you like. I know you don’t wear rings very much,” he gestures with a spare hand. “You could always wear it on a chain, I know you have a few,” he continues, rolling the gummy thing out in his palm and beginning to pull it into a ring-shape.

“Y’know I had a signet ring, once,” Crowley offers, resting his chin on his hand and watching Aziraphale’s work.

“Oh?” Aziraphale gives him a surprised look, pinching and shaping with his fingers.

“Yeah,” Crowley says softly, “Just an old protection charm I bought.” He waves a little, as if it’s not important. He’d told himself he’d gotten it because he’d recently had his house torched, and could use the extra protections, but really, it was because it reminded him of Aziraphale. He’d worn the charm out just from wearing it to bed, petting it and quivering with the yearning to have the angel close.

Aziraphale frowns a little at the demon who’s watching him with soft eyes. He draws the protections he wants to wrap Crowley in deep into the ring, fiddling a little as he tries to decide on a style. In the end, it’s a chunky gold ring, small runes drawing patterns on the inside and outside. He offers it up to Crowley on his palm.

Crowley plucks it up, peering at the design, the runes glittering a pale blue-green. “Laurels?” he asks, tilting it back and forth in the light.

“Our first…” Aziraphale gives him an effusive shrug, looking flushed.

Crowley gives him a fond smile, and slides it onto his thumb, flexing his hands as the enchantments slowly unfurl over him. It’s comfortable, and comforting, knowing Aziraphale’s there with just an idle fidget.

“You know,” Aziraphale smiles at him, “I used to think you had some sort of tracker on me. You always found me so easily.”

Crowley leans forward so that their knees and shoulders touch. “Nah,” he whispers softly, giving Aziraphale an open, loose smile, “I’m just good at finding things.” 

“It’s nice,” Crowley thumbs Aziraphale’s knee with his now-bedecked digit, “Thank you.”

Aziraphale sighs a little, bringing a hand up to caress Crowley’s face with sad eyes, “I just hope it’s enough.”

Crowley chuckles a little at that, and leans his head into Aziraphale’s hand.

“What will you do now?” Aziraphale asks. “I don’t want to imagine you going on another bender if I leave you to your own devices.”

Crowley grumbles, pulling his head away from Aziraphale’s hand with a huff. “I was planning on moving more stuff into the shop,” he shrugs. “Got distracted by the letters.” He stretches his arms out above his head and sinks back into his couch.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods a little.

“Could drop you off at the shop if you like,” he shrugs and Aziraphale chuckles.

“Sure,” Aziraphale pats him on the knee as he gets up. He considers his effusive date-gifts with a flush of embarrassment, and Crowley chuckles at him.

“Hey, you owe me chocolates, I got you _two_ boxes back when you opened up shop,” he pokes Aziraphale’s shoulder, smirking.

“You ate one of them yourself, though,” Aziraphale chuckles, shaking his head and starting a little as the demon walks past him carrying a large pot with an ancient-looking, blush-pink clematis on a pear-shaped climbing support.

“Well,” Crowley grunts as he pushes through his front door and jerks his neck to motion the angel to follow him, “If I didn’t eat them, they woulda went bad.”

Aziraphale titters a little at that. “Can I, uh, help with any of these?” he asks as the demon pops the boot and delicately pushes the clematis into it.

“Oh,” Crowley shoves his hair out of his face. “Sure?”

Together they make short work of moving out the plants Crowley set out. One of the devil’s snares refuses to let Crowley go when he tries to set it in the trunk, and Aziraphale has to delicately remove vines tangled up in the demon’s hair for what seems like a half hour. Afterwards, Crowley drives them out to Soho, pushing Aziraphale into his bookshop because the nursery isn’t ready to be viewed by others. Yet.

He spends the rest of the evening tending the plants he’s already carted over and setting up the new ones around the place. Aziraphale may have popped in a new window at the back where the old backdoor used to be so that he can snoop on the demon popping in and out of his shop.

Crowley jitters around his flat once he finishes puttering at his shop. He puts away the champagne and eats a few of the chocolates. They’re almost all caramels since Crowley can’t stand fruit-filled ones and truffles run a little rich for him. He isn’t really sure what to do with the frickin’ candelabra, but he repots the chrysanthemum from its too-small pot. He files his paperwork away, leaving the appointment reminder out so that he’ll continue to see it and slowly get nagged into making an appointment. Sometime.

He’s still antsy, and could easily devolve into booze and claws. He ends up in his bathroom, staring at his reflection, fingering the bruises left by his glasses, grimacing at his curls. He needs a change, he’s vibrating with it, so he grabs his shears and trims his hair back: shorn short along the sides but long on the top so that he can poof it up again. Hair’s easy, it grows back, and once he’s finished cleaning up the shorn locks, he feels like a weight has been lifted. He showers and smiles fondly at himself as he rubs at the short bits on the sides.

The next day Crowley stops by the bookstore with croissants, and Aziraphale manages not to gawp at the hair change too much because there’s customers milling about. Crowley thumbs through Aziraphale’s queer and women’s lit section, gently chatting up people as they work up the gumption to take a look too.

He makes a point of visiting every day of the week, having gotten used to seeing the angel so frequently and also, trying to normalize their relationship so that Aziraphale will stop looking at him _like that_, puppy dog eyes with something forlorn tucked behind them. On Wednesday, he tugs Aziraphale out for crepes at lunch, inspired by passing a restaurant while lugging his plants over to his nursery. On the way back from the restaurant, he pauses next to the passenger side, like he normally does to open the door for Aziraphale, but instead, he pulls the angel into him for a kiss. They’re in a public parking lot, and someone honks at them to get a move on, startling them into breaking apart and giggling anxiously. They kiss a little at the shop too as customers filter out, but Crowley bops away before things get too hot and heavy, jittering through the stacks and yammering about his little project of buying out this block of Soho.

Thursday is New Year’s Eve proper, so in the morning they pack their suitcases and drive out to Tadfield. Adam’s parents had offered their spare bedroom again, but Crowley had bad nightmares being so near an aura like that last time and had headed to a motel nearly immediately. He’s booked them in a small cottage nearby this time, not unlike the one Anathema had stayed at when she visited.

Tadfield is still absurdly perfect for this time of year, beautiful blankets of white covering everything and soft snowflakes flittering onto their noses. They spend a little time settling into the cottage, and Aziraphale gets to watch Crowley fuss with clothes and presentation. Crowley looks so effortlessly put together all the time that Aziraphale had wrongly assumed the demon would just walk into his closet, sniff a little and instantaneously and impulsively choose an outfit, just like that.

Today, Crowley really wants to present as femme, but knows that he can’t what with parents and children who are all very focused on the idea of him as a caddish male. He stalks in and out of the bathroom, trying on these pants or that shirt, frowning and slouching in the mirror as he tries to decide whether he can get by without binding because he _really_ isn’t in the mood for it today.

“You could always just glamour it,” Aziraphale offers, and Crowley just glowers at him.

“Not with Adam,” he grouses, quickly pulling out the barrette’s he’d just been trying on. Lucifer had rather forcefully laid down rules about glamour early on, and every single demon alive has a panic response to being in more than their basic glamour when he happens to sidle up to them. He enjoys the smell of fear, and doesn’t mind the tremulous smiles and fainting that happens sometimes thanks to this. Adam is not Lucifer, of course, but his magic _feels_ like him enough that Crowley couldn’t maintain a gender-glazing glamour around him for more than a few seconds before breaking out in a panicked sweat.

Aziraphale steps in after watching Crowley cycle through three shirts rapidly, pulling them on and off and frowning at himself in the mirror grumpily. He digs through Crowley’s suitcase, pulling out a few items in blues and greens. He turns, mouth quirked as he sizes up the demon. He has Crowley try on a thin black shirt under a deeply vee’d dark teal cardigan with his normal black jacket pulled around that. Aziraphale gently adjusts the lapels, and with an incredibly fond smile, pulls the thin gold chain with his ring on it out so that it sits on top of the black shirt.

It’s enough layers that his breasts are less noticeable, ostensibly just odd crinkles or tugs of fabric. Crowley pulls a black shawl from his suitcase and pulls it around his shoulders, further masking his bust, and flushes a little. “Thanks, angel,” he grumbles shyly, pecking him quickly on the cheek before walking past and shutting his suitcase.

The fussing with clothes and then with gifts, as Aziraphale has of course brought a few gifts for Them, leaves them a bit short for time. They pull into the Finlay house sometime after seven, Crowley burying himself behind the presents Aziraphale’s bringing. It helps him hide his grimace as the door opens and he gets slammed with Adam’s aura. He’s happy tonight, giggling audibly from the den, which you’d think Crowley might find soothing. It’s never a good thing when Lucifer’s happy, though.

Lugging the presents in gives him enough time to shiver the panic back, schooling his face into a vaguely disinterested moue as the Finlay’s hug and kiss their greetings. All of the Them’s parents and a few other friends and family are in attendance, except for Brian’s mom who’s been called in to an emergency shift at the hospital. Aziraphale is very quickly drawn in with the children, delightedly listening to their stories of their recent adventures. Crowley leans back near the Christmas tree that’s still up, quietly keeping up small talk with Pepper’s stepdad and the two other husband-type men that he can’t quite place.

Adam’s altered things, perhaps without thinking really, so that Aziraphale and Crowley are respected as actual godfathers, as if they’d always been distant family friends or relatives. It makes the parents relax and not squint as Aziraphale pulls scarves from his sleeve, or as Crowley idly grooms snow and twigs from an unknown child’s hair as they cling to his leg. This one is probably related to Brian, he’s guessing, something in the freckles and slant of the nose reminds him of the boy’s mother. They scamper off before he can investigate too much, and he ends up alone for a moment, leaning against the wall and sipping a ginger ale that Pepper’s mother had shoved at him not long after they’d arrived.

He watches Aziraphale, smiling a little. He’s _happy_ playing with Adam and his friends, delighted that he can toy around with his sleight of hand _and_ pull the stops a little, make a few aetheric sparks appear as he successfully performs a trick. They’re all crowded around Adam’s phone at the moment, watching a video of them doing something when Crowley feels a small hand patting his thigh.

“Oh, hello,” he smiles loosely down at the puff of brown hair, and lets himself sink down the wall so that he’s sitting down. Skye looks up at him shyly, murmuring her own hello.

“Heard you missed me,” he offers, softly tilting his head in invitation. It doesn’t take long for Skye to open up, and soon he’s listening to her explain fantastical stories of princesses saving dragons and rescuing kingdoms.

They get called in for a late dinner around eight, mostly finger foods and desserts. Crowley can’t really partake of anything because there’s a banana crème pie in the vicinity, so he makes a plate of cocktail wieners and tiny finger sandwiches and slyly forks them onto Aziraphale’s plate when no one’s looking. If he were pressed, he could mime eating and magic the food elsewhere; he’s been forced to do that in the past. He figures it’s not worth it this time, but as he tries to slink off to a dark corner to sulk or maybe entertain more children, Aziraphale slides his hand around his waist, pulling him back as the angel discusses the hardships of running a small business with Wensleydale’s mother. Crowley doesn’t tense, hoping no one really notices the obvious display of public affection which really couldn’t be explained away. ‘Just friends’ did not generally thumb at the other’s lower back fondly, before dipping their fingers into a back pocket and groping. Crowley leans his elbow on Aziraphale’s shoulder, trying to look interested as Edith goes on about how online advertising was a real crapshoot, sometimes an ad could get you hundreds of sales and then others, _nothing_.

By nine, they put the younger children down to bed and attempt to get Adam and his friends to start winding down unsuccessfully. Adam insists that _now_ is the time to open the presents, even though most of the adult populace in the vicinity is against the idea, knowing it will condemn them to several more hours of wound up preteens. Aziraphale or Crowley could’ve easily tipped the scales one way or the other, but they’re both stubbornly ambivalent. The presents are all very thoughtful of course, books aligned with key interests or a new red leather jacket that Pepper had hungered over knowing her parents would never deign to get it for her.

Aziraphale leaves Crowley’s side again at that point, helpfully pointing out bits of the manual for Wensleydale’s microscope set and helping Brian get the guitar strap around his shoulders which have sprouted a bit wider in the past year.

Crowley is startled from his nook near the front window by Skye again, pawing at him in her pajamas. She looks adorably sleepy, but insists on telling him more stories she’s just thought up. He listens dutifully, walking her upstairs to her bedroom and quietly tiptoeing past the room full of snoozing youngsters. She crawls into his arms as he tries to put her to bed, so he tells her a few stories in return, lapsing into lullabies as she starts cycling into drooping and then popping up raptly. He tucks her into bed, smiling softly, and quietly closes the door behind him.

“I was wondering where you got off to,” Pepper’s mother, Meg, rounds on him, holding two champagne flutes in her hand. She thrusts one at him, and he takes it with a quirked brow.

“Sorry,” he offers softly, “She wanted to tell me more stories.”

Meg smirks a little at that, “She is really taken with you.” She squints a little at him, and he recognizes it as a human feeling out the edges of a charm, finding a loose thread and trying to follow it back.

“Uh,” he struggles a little for a moment, “She’s got a great imagination.”

“I think it’s the hair,” she gives him a hard smile. Crowley frowns, confused. “She’s really into _Brave_ right now, and she’s obsessed with gingers.”

“Ah,” Crowley nods a little, trying to remember which cartoon _Brave _was. It wasn’t hand-animated, he knew that, but beyond that he couldn’t really place it.

“C’mon,” she gestures, “Don’t wake them.” Crowley nods and follows her downstairs. As they near the kitchen, she plucks his sleeve, startling him greatly. “Are you hungry? You didn’t eat much.”

“Oh, uh,” he starts, looking up at the giant trifle that’s been pulled out since he was last in the kitchen. The smell of banana is still a bit too pervasive for him to consider eating anything. “I ate a big dinner, sorry. Should’ve left some room,” he offers, smiling shyly.

She pats him on the shoulder fondly, heading off as someone calls her name. He gets sucked into a conversation about sports, which he could really give a toss about, but it’s something that makes it look like he’s being social and engaging so he offers occasional ascents or frowns as a couple of the dads discuss cricket or football or who knows what. He mostly watches Aziraphale out of his periphery, remembering a time with a changeling prince long ago. Aziraphale had been much the same, utterly besides himself and delighted to spend time in his presence. Crowley hadn’t seen the interactions in quite this much detail, though, tempting from the peasantry and then getting too embroiled in devilish politics to stay in the court. He wonders if he ought to feel jealous. Perhaps Aziraphale was just interested in other beings who could perform flash and magic as well? He huffs and waves off the idea pretty quickly knowing it’s not really worth the anxiety.

Around 11:16, his phone rings, and he quietly excuses himself from the slowing conversation about a local rugby league. He steps outside, wrapping his shawl close and stalking to the Bentley as he pulls a cigarette out from somewhere. His cigarette smoke won’t hurt anyone but him, but he’d rather not upset any of the parents in residence so he makes sure to be properly out of the vicinity.

“Hello?” he answers, holding his hands close to his face as he flickers a flare on his thumb to light his cigarette.

“Happy new year!!” Warlock shouts into his ear, and Crowley chuckles fondly.

“It’s not quite midnight yet,” he exhales a white puff of smoke. “But happy new year to you, anyway,” he grins.

“Aw,” Warlock pouts as he chuckles. “I thought it was midnight there,” he grouses.

“You’re in Washington, right?”

“Yeah,” he sighs and Crowley hears him flop onto some sort of soft furniture like a bed or sofa.

“How’re the relatives this time?” he flicks his glasses off of his nose to stare up at the terribly clear night sky. It’s beautiful, stars twinkling and winking, and the moon is just a sliver poking over some of the houses.

“Eh,” Warlock grumbles. “Uncle Burt keeps asking me how many girlfriends I have, and Aunt Mattie won’t stop kissing me and pinching my cheeks.”

“Bleck,” Crowley sympathizes, scuffing his feet in the snow and leaning hard against the Bentley.

“Mom and Dad are being weird,” Warlock starts after a moment, rubbing his nose.

“Oh?” Crowley takes a long inhale, and slowly drizzles it out, toying the smoke into serpentine shapes.

“They’re like… talking? And I even saw them _hugging_ once.” He sounds incredibly offended by this.

Crowley laughs at that, “Maybe it’s a good thing?” He whistles a little as he exhales. “Has Harriet bothered you anymore?”

“Nah,” Warlock jiggles something on his side, and after a moment Crowley hears the telltale bleeps and bloops of one of his game systems. “I miss you,” Warlock sniffs a bit.

Crowley sighs a little, holding the phone harder to his ear. A lot of Warlock’s messages end up like this. _Why can’t I just live with you? I hate it here._

“I miss you too,” he offers. “When you get back, I’ll take you out shopping again, hm?” Crowley had started taking Warlock out to tea or coffee, something habitual in socializing with food and drink, but soon they’d devolved into Crowley allowing Warlock to feel comfortable doing new things, buying clothes he couldn’t normally get. They had bought two men’s skirts for him, Warlock utterly giddy with boy celebrities and the like suddenly striking out and making it okay to wear such things. They’d been tossed by his mother though, and Crowley has been meaning to take him out to buy some replacements again.

“Alright,” Warlock sniffs a little, audibly clacking buttons. At that point, Crowley feels something like Aziraphale groping for him, suddenly realizing he’s not in the house. He peers up as the angel pulls back the curtain, looking consternated at the demon smoking in the cold. Crowley makes a show of pulling the ring out from under his jackets and shawl, bringing it to his lips and giving Aziraphale a sly, glinting smile. The angel flushes a bit at that, huffing and turning away.

“Look, I’ve gotta get back,” Crowley sighs, stretching out his neck. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“It’s six here, Nanny,” Warlock scoffs.

“W-well, y’know,” he shrugs ineffectually. “Love you,” he calls, snuffing out the remains of his cigarette.

“Mmhmm,” Warlock sniffs a little. “Love you,” he hangs up just as Crowley hears a door open on his end of the line.

Crowley heads back inside, shivering a bit as more perfect snowflakes fall on him. He scuffs his feet on the doormat once inside, reshuffling his shawl and jacket when Adam bursts forth from the den.

“Who were you talking to?” he barks, and Crowley stiffens. He clicks his teeth together after a moment, biting back the trained obedience that almost makes him spit out an answer without thought. This was part of why he’d spent so much time with Adam’s parents, honestly. He’d watched other strong, occult children turn their parents into zombie-like thralls. It wasn’t particularly good for anyone involved, so he’d woven some strong resistance to their son’s magic into their makeup through a week-long break as Aziraphale excitedly followed (and distracted) the troupe all over the hills and dells of Lower Tadfield.

“A friend,” Crowley offers thinly, slipping his glasses back on. Aziraphale pokes his head out from the den, considering the body language of the two with a frown.

“Shouldn’t you be getting to bed?” Aziraphale steps in, placing a hand on Adam’s shoulder. Adam shakes him off, getting increasingly upset, so Aziraphale looks up at Crowley appealingly.

“I was talking to Warlock,” he shrugs, eyes on Aziraphale.

“You know a _warlock?_” Wensleydale joins them in the hall, softening the situation immensely with his delicate bites of the trifle from a paper plate.

“Well, no,” Crowley chuckles. “I mean, I’ve known warlocks, sure,” he gives Aziraphale a wincing smile. The angel looks pale and aghast at that, not wanting to discuss the men who had proceeded to drain Crowley of all of his bodily fluids while he was locked in a very well-done devil’s trap, leaving him in a strange dead-alive state where he couldn’t discorporate nor heal too well. “Bit obsessed with fluids,” he grimaces, getting very confused looks from both the children.

“Warlock’s a name,” Aziraphale offers, smiling at Wensleydale, “not a title, in this case.”

“What kind of name is _Warlock?_” Adam grouses, rubbing his nose and still looking a little fussed, “He must be ancient.”

Crowley chortles a little at that, and finally moves from his defensive stance at the doorway, brushing past the two boys and Aziraphale. “He’s twelve,” he pats Adam on the shoulder as he passes, and plucks up another flute of champagne.

“What, really?” Wensleydale gawps at him.

“Can we meet him?” Adam asks impetuously, quirking his head at the demon. He finds Crowley… interesting, but the demon is always very, very closed around him, smiling softly and offering very useful tips here and there, but he’s gotten the sense that he doesn’t really like him. It reminds him of the winces of his friends on the day of the not-apocalypse and he’s _insistent_ that he get Crowley to come around to like him as well. He knows he's a good person, Aziraphale likes him obviously, but he just can't understand why Crowley stiffens and winces so much around him.

“Uh,” Crowley looks surprised at that. “He’s in America at the moment,” he shrugs. “I can ask if he’s interested once he comes back from holiday, I suppose.”

Aziraphale is blinking a bit in disbelief as well. This could get very uncomfortable very fast, because Warlock could very easily be the Young’s real child. Also, the whole raising him as the antichrist, and then having him meet the actual antichrist and having them potentially talk about said rearing? _Oh dear_.

“Why was Warlock calling you from America?” Wensleydale squints at Crowley. The Them know Aziraphale and Crowley’s true natures, thanks to Adam explaining things, so what might’ve been his first question, something like “Is he your son or nephew or something?” is replaced by this.

“Wishing me happy new year’s,” Crowley shrugs, and pushes into the den away from the children and Aziraphale.

“That’d be expensive,” Adam nods sagely, “My dad won’t let me make international calls.”

They relax in the den, most of the adults and preteens dozing as midnight approaches. Pepper stubbornly stays awake, as she apparently has for the past two years. It’s a point of pride, and she sits stiff-backed as the muted television shows Big Ben ticking down to midnight, silent fireworks exploding on the screen, eerily quiet, followed by a few beats of silence before more local fireworks and rowdiness sound around them.

Aziraphale has perhaps had a few too many flutes of champagne, and drops into the seat next to Crowley and kisses him softly on the cheek as the year rings in. Crowley freezes, horrified by the twenty or so humans who might see them and think _things_, so Aziraphale just leans on his shoulder and looks very soused and very in love.

Crowley ends up lugging the angel out of the house, over his shoulder this time because it’s easier than a bridal carry. The Finlay’s had offered to keep everyone over for the night, but Crowley gently brushes off the objections and drives back to the cottage in the pitch darkness with his glasses off. It’s a beautiful, incredibly dark night with few sharp lights to blind him, and all of this accidentally magicked perfection is starting to set his teeth on edge.

Aziraphale’s awake enough to toddle into the cottage, and he settles into the single bed in his day clothes before Crowley irritably miracles him into his pajamas. He showers and moves their suitcases off the end of the bed, and considers whether he feels like going to sleep on the couch or if here is fine. After a few minutes of watching Aziraphale snore softly, he tucks himself into bed.

He lays awake, yellow eyes on the ceiling, thinking about innumerable unimportant things, unable to let himself relax enough to sleep. He dozes off sometime near sunrise and wakes with Aziraphale around seven.

* * *

Aziraphale’s assumptions about Crowley’s everyday just keep being ripped apart as they spend more time together. He’s come to realize that the demon is far less of a party animal than he used to assume, but some part of him is still incredibly surprised to find the demon sprawled on the couch with a quilt over him, the cottage cat curled on his lap as he struggles with dastardly puzzle apps on his phone. He dozes in and out through the day and Aziraphale heads over to Adam’s house in the afternoon.

Aziraphale ends up helping the boy do the dishes, Aziraphale washing and Adam drying, before they can go outside and do anything interesting with the new year, new day.

“Aziraphale?” Adam starts, as he rubs a damp towel lazily around a casserole dish. “Why does Crowley hate me?”

Aziraphale nearly drops the glass he’s currently washing, but manages to rescue it with a miracle. “Uh, what do you mean?” he asks, voice a little high.

“I thought maybe it was like… he didn’t like kids once they got to a certain age or something,” Adam shrugs a little, and Aziraphale pales desperately at that.

“I do think you’re a little confused, dear boy,” Aziraphale lays a sudsy palm on Adam’s shoulder.

“What? My aunt is like that. She even said it, ‘once they’re teenagers, forget it!’”

“Ah, ah,” Aziraphale wilts a little at that. “Well, I, hm. Crowley doesn’t hate you, he-he likes you just fine the way you are.”

Adam scoffs at that, roughly slashing a slew of damp forks into the drawer. “He’s ‘friends’ with another kid my age, but he can’t seem to stand being around me.”

Aziraphale takes a deep inhale, considering what he’s about to say. “Well, Adam,” he sighs, glancing around to make sure that his parents are out of earshot, “we uh, we kind of raised Warlock.”

“What?” Adam gawps at him.

“I, it was, it was Crowley’s idea! I mean, I agreed to it, but… oh,” he sighs deeply, drying his hands so that he can rub his face. He leans back against the sink, peering at the boy who’s still squinting agape at him, trying to figure out how _that_ worked. “It’s… well, you know, when you were born, you were in that birthing hospital?” Adam shrugs a little. He doesn’t really have _memories_ of that, but his parents have talked about it once or twice. “Crowley delivered you there, uh, I mean, no, not, not like that,” he chuckles a little nervously. “There was a little bit of a mix up, and somehow, the couple that was supposed to get you… got Warlock instead,” he gestures a little.

Adam frowns at him. “Huh?”

“Well, uh, we, Crowley and I, really didn’t want this whole apocalypse _thing_ to happen. So, we decided, we’d get together and see if we couldn’t… shape the antichrist, or, or, who we _thought_ was the antichrist, into someone who… well, someone like you,” he shrugs a little helplessly.

Adam crosses his arms, looking deep in thought as Aziraphale continues. “So, uh, yeah, that’s, that’s why Crowley has a friend your age. And, uh, yes, I do think, I do think you’re wrong about how he feels about you,” he adds, anxiously waving a finger.

“Really?” Adam gawks at him.

“I, uh, yes,” Aziraphale adds a little lamely, looking nervous. 

“So… you’re like, his dads then?” he quirks his head at Aziraphale, who sputters at that.

“Uh, no, uhm, we, we didn’t, we were just caretakers, really?” he fans himself a little, suddenly flush with anxiety. “Crowley was his, uh, nanny and I was the gardener, and once he got too old for a nanny, we were his tutors,” he nods a little, eyes darting to Adam and quickly away.

“Wouldn’t he notice?” Adam shakes the damp towel out and sets it on the edge of the sink to dry.

“Uh, you know, apparently he did, actually. Normally he wouldn’t what with the glamour, but he has the sight, so,” he’s babbling a little now, anxiety getting away from him.

“Sight?” Adam quirks his head at the angel.

“Uh, yes, you know, like seers?” he gestures shakily, tugging on his rings, and Adam frowns at him.

“That’s real?” he gawps. He’s continually surprised as he talks to both Aziraphale and Crowley and they idly mention something like, “Oh yes, Baba Yaga makes these lovely chocolate brownies with orange oil, simply to die for.”

“Uh, yes?” Aziraphale primly adjusts the shoulders of his coat, and miracles away the dampness around the middle of his waistcoat left over from washing.

* * *

Aziraphale buys a fresh sour dough baguette and a few orders of fish and chips on the way home as Crowley hasn’t eaten in a bit. He knows the demon can go a long time without eating, but it does take its toll. They’d travelled through the Alps together once, very, very long ago and Crowley had refused to eat anything, not wanting to have to deal with the potential of bad food problems mixed with the discomfort of changing air pressure and freezing temperatures. He’d grown very quiet and stiff as they continued on their journey, and once they returned to sea level, he’d devoured nearly all the food stores of an inn that they stayed at.

Crowley is dozing on the couch when he comes in, his velvety black sweater covered in white cat hair thanks to the puzzing black and white thing currently resting on his breastbone.

“Hello dear,” Aziraphale calls softly as he notices Crowley starting to stretch and work his way up from supine without disturbing his cat companion too much. He cedes the quilt to the cat slowly, but ultimately the thing is too fussed by the fact that it can’t sit on him anymore and rushes off.

“Oh, fish and chips?” he sniffs as he cricks his neck, stretching out his back and shoulders.

“Yes, I thought we should get something you could actually eat,” he chuckles. “It’s not too greasy, but don’t let it sit out too long,” he begins unloading the brown bag onto the table, apportioning out a few servings each to both of them.

Crowley sidles up next to him, gently drawing an arm around his waist and smiling fondly. “Thanks, angel,” he kisses Aziraphale on the corner of his mouth when he looks up at him surprised.

They eat in silence for the most part, both of them far more interested in putting away the good food.

“How was Adam today?” Crowley asks after he polishes off his third round of fish and chips, licking salt off of his fingers.

“Oh, hm,” Aziraphale is a little distracted by Crowley’s tongue, and he forces himself to close his eyes and drink a few gulps of his drink before he continues. “He’s, uh, he’s well,” he shrugs a little. Crowley smirks at him, and gestures for him to continue. “Ah, uh, well… we were talking today, and…” Aziraphale sighs, spending a moment dabbing salt off of his lips and fingers.

“And?” Crowley asks, sneaking a fry from him with sly smile.

“He seems to believe you hate him,” Aziraphale sighs.

“Ah,” Crowley taps the remaining half of the fry he just stole on his lip.

“He’s a bit jealous of Warlock, I think,” Aziraphale shrugs, and looks away from the demon.

“I don’t hate him,” Crowley harrumphs, sinking in his chair and still toying with the fry. Aziraphale frowns at him, and Crowley rolls his eyes in response. “Look, it’s…” he grumbles. “It’s not his fault, okay? It’s just me and my…” he waves the fry and finally gives up on it, setting it on his plate.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale squints at him.

“He’s his own person, really, and we’re all still _alive_ because of that. He’s great,” Crowley crosses his arms on his chest. “It’s just… there’s times when he gets too excited, or he surprises me, and his magic just pops out and it’s like, ‘Oh, hello Lucifer!’”

“Oh,” Aziraphale drops the chip he was working on himself, looking a bit distraught at that.

“It’s not his fault, _completely_ not his fault. But he gets upset sometimes and he does this, this _thing_ with his lip and it’s just like his-his, uh, Lucifer, and he’s, he’s very charismatic and charming, just like him too, it’s…” he rubs his face, sighing deeply. “When we started caring for Warlock, y’know, I kind of wondered, ‘huh, what happened to the whole aura thing I felt earlier?’ but I just figured it had to do with just being born, or just coming from Hell, and being on earth was changing him,” he waves a hand. “S’pose I should’ve realized that was dumb.”

“Well, Warlock did have a little magic to him, too,” Aziraphale offers, shrugging.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs. “I don’t know if they’ll get along, really,” he winces.

“They don’t have to be friends. They can just meet and move on, you know,” Aziraphale swirls a bit of battered fish in tartar sauce, not meeting Crowley’s eyes.

“Are we talking about the same Adam, angel?” Crowley smirks, “Boy takes making friends like a personal crusade.” 

Aziraphale sighs at that, “Well, he’s just going to have to learn that some people don’t want to be his friends, and it’s nothing against him.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over well,” Crowley chuckles.

* * *

They’ve rented out the cottage for the weekend, and as they’re planning to leave early Monday morning, they spend much of the Sunday left over at the Young’s house. Aziraphale gets sucked into a game of bridge with Deidre and her mother while Crowley makes a point of being around the kids, playing videogames on the giant television Arthur purchased with a bonus he received sometime in the last year.

Eventually the afternoon winds down, and the kids head home to play with their new toys at home and maybe pick at their holiday homework. Crowley ends up in the front hall with Adam again, peering after Pepper to ensure that she’s putting on her jacket as she puffs away from the house. He puts the curtain down once Pepper’s grumpily shouldered into her coat, and Adam surprises him, tucking him into a quick side hug.

“Oh, hello,” he chuckles a little, awkwardly patting Adam’s curls on his shoulder. “I’m not leaving yet,” he adds after a moment, giving the boy a concerned look.

“Ah, right,” Adam sniffs a little, jerking away and brushing his jacket down. After a moment of them both looking at each other, a little confused, Adam pipes up, “Uh, Crowley, what’s a Seer?”

Crowley blinks past him, incomprehensive. Adam’s found that the demon’s honestly better at explaining magic stuff than Aziraphale, even if he’s not very eloquent. He doesn’t get distracted or try to mollify him with sleight of hand instead.

“Oh,” Crowley frowns, putting things together. “Told you about Warlock, huh,” he rubs his chin, looking a little grumpily towards the kitchen. Adam peers at him expectantly. “Uh, well,” Crowley leans back against a table with a vase and a few plastic flowers stuffed in it. “Seers are people who can see through glamours, can see us, really,” he gestures. “Y’know I didn’t really think about it, but that might be a bad thing with Warlock,” he frowns a little, thumbing his lips in thought.

“What?” Adam steps forward worriedly, and Crowley stiffens a little but manages to not step away.

“Uh, well… for a seer you’ll probably be kind of… it’s kind of like looking at a really bright light, or well, the sun, I guess,” he chuckles. “If they’re not trained, they might just look at you and find you uncomfortable to be around and not really know why. And there’s not really any enclaves to train anyone anymore, so,” he shrugs.

Adam rocks on his feet a little, thinking. “Is it like that for you?” he gestures at the glasses.

“Ah, uh,” Crowley pops off of the table, a little embarrassed. “Uh, well, no, sensitive to light actually,” he shrugs, “magic too, if I’m being honest. So okay, yeah I guess.” He crosses his arms on his chest, and looks away, a bit flustered.

“Is… could I see like that?” Adam asks after a moment, bending down to scritch Dog as he’s wandered into the hall with them.

“Yeah,” Crowley shrugs. “It’s not too hard, you just need to practice. Here, c’mon, I’ll show ya.” He pops his head into the kitchen, waving at the elder Young’s and Aziraphale. “We’re gonna go take Dog for a quick walk, we’ll be back.” Aziraphale frowns a little at him, but Crowley gives him a game smile. “Don’t have too much fun without me,” he points a finger gun at the angel, making him snort.

Crowley shrugs on his trench coat as Adam pulls out a leash which he’ll just hold and not put on Dog, as well as a heavy coat. They tromp out into the idyllic snowscape, Crowley huddled into his coat and just letting Adam lead them off somewhere a bit secluded to do a little mischief.

“So, what’s a glamour then?” Adam asks, as he jumps over a stone fence. Crowley hups himself over as well, giving Dog a little boost with his palm.

“Glamour is like… well, you saw us before,” he gestures, “with wings ‘n all.”

“Oh, right,” Adam quirks his head at him, and plucks up a wet twig from a snowbank and wags it at Dog. “So… a glamour hides your wings?”

Crowley shrugs a little side to side, not really agreeing or disagreeing. “Yeah, basically. I mean we have other forms, too, but most people if they see through a glamour for Aziraphale or me, it’s just going be an eyeful of wings or I dunno, halos or horns or something,” he gestures dismissively. He’d been performing some miracles for Aziraphale once, and the young woman he’d guided through a troubled birthing had complimented his halo, though she kept squinting and wondering why it seemed so fractured. People saw different things depending on what they were expecting, and she thought he was an angel, so that’s what she got. There was a period in the middle ages when all the Seers alive would look at their wings and see them as multicolored, zanily cascading in rainbows. Crowley had enjoyed it; he’d even sat for a painting at the time with his wings out. His wings have been burned black for so terribly long and getting to see them like that, plumage rocketing from burgundy to teal, made him a little misty eyed.

“Other forms?” Adam looks desperately interested in this, ignoring Dog as he bounces up and down next to him, waiting for him to throw the stick again.

“Yeah, y’know,” Crowley rolls his wrist, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it. “We aren’t human y’know,” he finally offers, and Adam frowns at him. He finally hauls off and throws the stick way far off, and Dog disappears comically into snowbanks, popping in and out of them into the distance.

Adam keeps squinting at him, trying to _see_ but he’s not very successful. “Okay, okay, let’s, let’s try with Dog first,” he gestures as Dog bounds up with a different, much larger branch in his mouth. “So, what you need to do is kind of…” Crowley makes a frustrated noise, considering the changed hellhound. “Like, look at him? But unfocus your eyes, like, uhhh,” he huffs a sigh as Adam looks back at him, incredibly perplexed. “Okay, you know those pictures you see sometimes? Where like, there’s let’s say like a butterfly or something in the foreground, super close up, and in the background there’s like sunflowers or something, but they look just like blobs?”

Adam blinks at him, tweaking his head as he considers it. He shrugs and nods after a moment.

“What we want to do is kind of switch the focus from the uh, the butterfly to the sunflower, I guess. Or, well, really the midground?” he grumbles, drumming his fingers on his lips. “Ugh, I’m not describing this really well,” he rubs his chilled hands together, knuckles aching with the cold.

Adam turns back to Dog, focusing and unfocusing his eyes and getting nowhere. For his part, Dog is pacing back and forth smelling things under the snow, dirty branch all but forgotten.

“I, hm,” Crowley steps towards him, remembering something he’d seen a friend use to get into the Seeing frame of mind. “We should get you a fae teacher or something,” he grumbles quietly to himself. “Look, try putting your hand up, like this,” he holds it up, palm out in front of him. “And then look at your hand and slowly relax your eyes, blurring it so that it just, y’know,” he reaches out and gently adjusts Adam’s hand and squints over his shoulder.

“Once you get it real blurry, lower your hand and kind of… point your blurred eyes at—” Adam jumps as he follows along with Crowley’s instructions, seeing Dog as the miniature, terrier-sized sort-of hellhound that he is. “There we go,” Crowley gently pats him on the shoulders. Adam turns to look at him in wonder, and Crowley laughs a little at the sight. Adam’s eyes have gone full demonic, black with glowing red pupils again.

“Ah, crap,” he sighs, smiling in spite of himself, and Adam frowns in confusion. Crowley still looks mostly the same to him, his black wings not visible this time. “Your eyes,” Crowley offers his compact, wincing a little as Adam’s frown deepens.

“Damn it,” Adam gripes, rubbing his eyes hard with the heels of his hands as if that will help.

“Well, I guess I can teach you about glamour, too!” Crowley chuckles a little anxiously as Adam gives him a mild glower. “So, uh, first rule of glamour is: _go easy_,” he puts up a finger. “Especially when you’re starting out, they wear you down slowly. It’s like… have you ever worn like, a shirt, and it had a scratchy tag or something?” Adam nods a little, unconsciously scratching at his neck without thinking. “And you’re away from home, so you can’t just tug the shirt off and change, so you have to just kind of live with it, and it’s, it’s annoying and it’s always got a little bit of your attention, even if you’re doing something else?” Crowley gestures a little, and Adam grimaces and nods.

“Yeah? So, glamour’s itchy?” He’s itching his wrist now, too.

“Uh, no, it’s, it’s just kind of draining. Like how the shirt tag always has a little bit of your attention so you can’t like, fully focus on anything. A glamour is kind of like that. I think, when they teach people usually, they have you like, have some sort of like… tell for it, so you can have a kind of ritual of, ‘ah it’s on,’ and ‘it’s off.’” Adam frowns at him, shaking his head and not understanding.

“Oh, uh, I knew a wolf once who’d just draw a-a-well, it was a sigil of his name, but he’d draw it on his shoulder when he was pulling on the glamour and then wash it off when he was done. It’s just something so that you don’t have to focus quite so much attention on it, it’s just a little marker that you can check and go, ‘Hey, am I in glamour right now? Oh yeah, I am,’” he pats around in his coat for something small they can use. He pulls out a lime green hair tie after a moment, just an elastic, nothing too feminine.

“So, you, with a glamour, you just kind of, take a deep breath,” he demonstrates, inhaling theatrically, “and think hard about whatever you’re changing, and then slip on the marker you’re using.” He waggles the hair tie at Adam and slips it over his wrist, turning his hair black for effect. Adam jumps a little at that.

“Then, when you’re done, you just do the reverse, just puff out a big breath and slip it off, relaxing out of the charm,” he tugs the hairband off of his wrist, exhaling and turning his hair back to its natural shade. “Give it a try,” he offers the hairband to Adam. “You can go a bit wild the first time, change whatever you like just to see if you can, get a feel for it.”

Adam frowns a little, plucking the hairband up and turning it over in his fingers a little. “Anything?” he asks, peering back at the demon with still-glowing eyes. Crowley shrugs a little, leaning back against the stone fence. Dog’s stopped and sat next to them, peering back and forth at them as they interact.

Adam screws his face up, concentrating hard, and slips the hairband on his wrist. He sprouts up nearly another foot, and his jaw squares out a little along with his hair puffing out larger into a hefty, curly mop. Crowley pales and gulps, breath suddenly knocked out from him as he’s near to the spitting image of an angelic Lucifer, just shorter and a little softer. Adam peers at him, eyes still glowing a little, but stubbornly blue now, and exhales sharply, shucking off the hairband.

“It does take it out of you, doesn’t it,” he stares at the hairband, as if it was the cause of all this, and shakes his hand. It felt like stretching out to reach something that’s just a little too far away and starting to pull a muscle.

“Y-yeah,” Crowley lets out a long exhale, glancing down at Dog who seems to shake his head and head off to smell more interesting things again. “Let’s, uh, let’s try that again, but just focus on your eyes, eh?”

Adam screws up his face in displeasure, but closes his eyes in concentration and slips the hairband back on his wrist. He cautiously opens his eyes, peering around and Crowley gives him a surprised nod. “Not bad,” he offers the compact again. Adam’s eyes are their usual blue, though there’s little flecks and shards of a reddish brown in them if you look really closely.

“And you’re not pushing it too hard, right?” he gently wiggles a finger under the hairband, considering the strength Adam’s pushed into the charm. It’s a little much, honestly, but it takes some trial and error to figure out the right amount of effort. Adam takes off the hairband with a huff, and sighs, trying to focus again but Crowley brings a finger up to interrupt him.

“We should probably also work on just, calming down, y’know, like I showed you. That might put them away,” he gestures a little shakily, adrenaline rush still ticking through his system. Crowley and he toss the twigs and branches with Dog for a bit, just focusing on being a kid on a random Sunday afternoon and not the antichrist. He succeeds in mostly tucking away the glowing eyes. Now they’re just uncharacteristically reddish brown which is an improvement, but it’s still something his mother will definitely notice and comment on.

“You’ll eventually get better at like, feeling when things pop out,” he gestures a little, near his brand. “And then you’ll know, ah, crap, gotta cover that up,” he mimics a motion of fingering hair behind his ear anxiously even though his hair is currently very short.

“Yeah, okay,” Adam nods, squinting at the middle distance a little as he feels out the fact that his eyes still feel… a little different. “Isn’t it… like, lying?” Adam asks, after a moment of considering the hairband and thinking about pulling on another attempted glamour.

Crowley shrugs a little, and bends down to scrub some leaves and other gunk off of Dog’s head where he’s pawing at his snout irritably. “I think it’s more like… like makeup,” he squints off at the horizon, noticing that the sun’s near to setting and the temperature is starting to drop steadily. “C’mon,” he motions, and hefts himself over the fence. Adam pauses, focusing on _blue eyes, no glow_ and inhales, drawing the elastic around his wrist. It works better than last time, and isn’t as strenuous on him either.

“Let’s say you get a zit, or something,” Crowley gestures in front of him. “You can put cover up on it, and then, if people don’t look too closely, they’ll just see what they expect.”

Adam runs a little to catch up with the demon who’s powerwalking back to the house, very chilled and ready to be inside and warm again. “That’s basically all a glamour is doing for us. If we walk around like normal, it might cause problems, y’know?”

Adam puffs a little at that. “So, do you do it all the time?” he squints at the demon, still trying to get a look at what’s underneath.

Crowley shrugs a little, stuffing his stiff hands into his coat pockets, “Not… we try not to do it too extensively, ‘cause it’s exhausting honestly.” He starts a little as he sees Aziraphale walking towards them and waves at him confusedly. “It’s necessary sometimes though, so we don’t cause a riot.”

“I certainly hope you’re not inciting riots, dear,” Aziraphale steps up, smirking a little.

“Hardly,” Crowley rolls his eyes, and makes a quiet, but pointed head tick towards Adam, indicating, _notice anything?_ Adam just shivers, rubbing his bare hands together and breathing on them to warm them.

“Uh,” Aziraphale quirks his head, noticing the charm on his wrist. “Did you two have fun out there?” he ticks his eyes between the two of them, looking a little displeased at the demon.

“’Course, c’mon, let’s get inside before we freeze,” Crowley motions.

“Yes, Deidre sent me out to collect you two. Dinner’s nearly ready,” Aziraphale gently takes Adam’s shoulder and begins guiding them back to the house.

“What’s for dinner?” Crowley whispers to the angel behind Adam’s back. Aziraphale just shakes his head.

“Hamburger helper, I believe?” he sniffs a little, grimacing and giving Crowley a handwave to indicate, _you can’t eat it_.

“Ah,” Crowley shivers in his coat, but lets himself get carted along towards a dinner that he’s going to have to somehow grimace and fake his way through. Once they reach the front hall, Deidre’s mother titters over the boy, smoothing his curls and tugging him into the kitchen while Crowley and Aziraphale wipe their feet on the mat, and snuffle at the cold.

“Will you two be staying?” Deidre pops her head out of the kitchen, oven mitts still on her hands.

“Oh, uh, we need to head off, actually. We’re going back to London tonight,” Aziraphale delicately tucks Crowley’s arm under his elbow and pats the demon as he stiffens in anxiety. “Business doesn’t wait!”

Deidre chuckles a little at that, but waves a mitted hand at them. “Stay warm!” Adam calls out a goodbye as well, popping his curly head out and waving as they head back out the door that they’d just tromped in.

Crowley smirks a little at Aziraphale as they walk towards the Bentley, still arm in arm. “Do you have some pressing business, angel? Do I need to call you a cab?” he chortles a little as Aziraphale pinks.

“No, I, I just didn’t want you to have to suffer through another dinner that you can’t enjoy,” he sighs, patting Crowley’s arm as he helps him into the car. 

“I actually wouldn’t mind heading back,” Crowley huffs as he jerks the Bentley’s gears into place, stiff from the cold. “It’s… it’s too perfect here, and it’s setting me on edge,” he shivers a little as he manages to push the Bentley out into the street.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods, comprehension dawning on him. “Yes, he still does that, doesn’t he? Miraculously beautiful weather, all the time,” he squints at the evening, the sunset perfectly gradating into night, stars twinkling at them again.

“It’s not on purpose,” Crowley sighs. “Still unnerving though.”

* * *

They do end up heading back to London, packing their things and being sure to feed the cat before they leave. They run into Brian’s mom on the outskirts of town, returning from a late shift at the ER and wave.

The drive back is uneventful for the most part, Crowley explaining how the videogames the kids were playing were not so different from the card and dice games that Aziraphale’s played through the ages. Aziraphale’s not entirely convinced, but nods and listens attentively nonetheless.

“So, what was that charm you showed him, anyway?” Aziraphale rubs his nose, peering into the dark countryside they’re driving through.

“Just a glamour,” Crowley shrugs, and Aziraphale gives him a rankled look. “What?”

“Do you think that’s really a good idea?” he huffs.

Crowley rolls his eyes, not looking at the road at all but they’re in the middle of bumfuck so Aziraphale doesn’t snarl at him. “Look, he’d just popped out his eyes, y’know, all red and glowy and I mean, it’s happened before, it’s just going to keep happening. He’s going to be an angsty teen soon, and it’s enough dealing with _that_ and the fact that you’ve gotta hide in your room because _oh shit my eyes ain’t right today_.”

“I, hmph,” Aziraphale grumbles, rocking his shoulders a little as he considers that. “I thought you were working with him on calming down when it got bad.”

Crowley clucks his tongue, and shakes his head. “Yeah, ‘cause that works all the time right? My eyes are totally human, 100% of the time, right?” he jeers.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs.

“What, am I wrong?” he smacks the steering wheel because he can’t pace or otherwise move too much while he’s driving, and the Bentley grouses a little at him, replaying a few chords of _Play the Game_ as if it was a record that got caught, skipping. “Sorry, babe,” he pats the dash absent mindedly, and Aziraphale blinks hard at him, bewildered, and the Bentley winds back into playing the song normally.

“Well, I,” Aziraphale shakes his head, peering back at the darkness. “I suppose you’re right,” he finally flicks his wrist, conceding the point. “We just have to be careful, y’know,” he sighs, rubbing his brow in thought.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs deeply, “Don’t want him to draw the attention of the wrong people, I know.”

They drive in silence for a while, Crowley pulling off of the freeway and slowly winding through city streets. “Do you still keep up with those Sidhe you were friends with?” Crowley asks as they sit at a long light, two truckers idling along with them as absolutely no one drives through the long green light going the other way.

“Uh,” Aziraphale shakes himself from the in-depth daydream he was just engrossed in and tries to replay what Crowley just asked.

“Fair folk? I forget their names, and pffuh, like I’d even want to say their names if I knew ‘em,” he gestures, gunning the Bentley as the light finally turns green.

“Oh, uh,” Aziraphale brushes his hand through his hair, squinting in thought. “Well, yes. Why?”

“Might be a good idea to tap one of them as like, a teacher,” he shrugs. “I know you had a favor held out on one of them, after you saved some rare book or something.”

Aziraphale huffs at that, looking a little cross. “Well, why don’t _you_ call in one of your favors, hm?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “You know why,” he grouses, finally turning into Soho. They’re nearly there, but not quite home yet. Aziraphale peers over at him, expectantly. “What? Most of my friends _died_ with cold iron, Aziraphale,” he smirks darkly, “Or at least, had to get out of dodge.” Aziraphale looks startled at that.

Crowley and Aziraphale had kept different company amongst the fae, Aziraphale favoring the genteel upper classes and Crowley chumming with the more bestial classes. Neither of them rubbed elbows too terribly much, though. Upper management honestly didn’t care too much about their associations with the fae, but it didn’t do well for either of them to have too many close friends, as they all ended up as potential targets or potential leaks. The fae weren’t super fond of the angels or devils, either, finding them a bit too otherworldly for even their tastes.

“I, oh,” Aziraphale sighs, looking relieved as Crowley pulls in outside of the bookshop. “I suppose I could… ask around, then.”

“’S probably a good idea,” Crowley shrugs as he gets out of the Bentley. “We can’t teach him everything. Neither of us were kids, y’know.”

“I… that’s true,” Aziraphale nods as he tugs his suitcase out of the Bentley. Crowley leans on the back of the Bentley, chewing his lip in thought.

“D’ya mind if I stay over, angel?” he asks, eyebrows quirked over his glasses.

“Oh, uh,” Aziraphale looks up at the bookshop. “Sure, of course,” he nods with a small smile. Crowley pulls his suitcase out and shuts the trunk, tromping across the street. He lets Aziraphale fuss with his keys even though both of them could just open it with a thought, knowing how he likes the rituals of things. He fully expects Aziraphale to draw up the daybed for him, but he waves for Crowley to follow him upstairs.

It feels like entering someplace sacred, secret, someplace that he’s not supposed to be. He sniffs a little, looking around as Aziraphale flips the lights on in his room and begins moving things around. Crowley had kind of assumed that Aziraphale’s bedroom would be completely overrun with books, just a glorified storage closet. But no, there’s a plush bed with an incredible number of quilts and pillows thrown on it, creased here and there as the angel’s tucked himself in to read or peer out the window and daydream. There are more quilts tossed around on the two armchairs in the room, folded up but bulky, and Aziraphale’s rapidly stuffing them away in a trunk so that Crowley has somewhere to put his suitcase down.

Crowley peers around at the paintings on the walls, smiling a little as he recognizes them. Aziraphale had befriended painters and artists as well through the ages, different sorts than Crowley, but here’s a scroll carefully preserved showing a rolling landscape of the misty mountains in China with a little calligraphy dotting the skyline, along with a small watercolor of a pond with ducks done by an amateur friend of the angel’s, evoking Monet.

“Uh,” Aziraphale pauses, looking a little flushed with his quick tidying. “Sorry, it’s a bit messy,” he runs his hand through his hair worriedly.

“You’ve seen my place, angel,” Crowley smirks, and lugs his suitcase up onto the chair that Aziraphale’s emptied, “It’s fine.”

“I, uh,” Crowley pauses as he roots in his suitcase, glancing at the angel who still looks incredibly nervous and tremulous. “I’d just like to sleep, if that’s okay.”

Aziraphale huffs a bit of a relieved sigh at that, “Mm, yes, okay.”

“You don’t really sleep, I know, sorry that I’m making you pick up the habit,” Crowley grouses, tugging out his sleepshirt and some clean underwear.

“It’s… it’s fine, I do usually come up here to read for a bit and wind down,” he nods.

“Alright. So long as I’m not putting you out,” he gestures a little. “’m gonna go shower, alright?” Aziraphale nods and plunks his own suitcase on the bed, beginning to unpack.

Crowley walks down the dark hall, popping the lights in the bathroom. He pulls his glasses off, unsure if his eyes are maybe not adjusting correctly. “Wasn’t your bathroom pink?” he calls, squinting at the sandy-brown towels and tan walls.

“Oh,” Aziraphale pokes his head out from the bedroom, peering at him. “I uh… I change it every month or so,” he shrugs a little. Crowley snorts at that. “What?”

“Huh,” Crowley shakes his head, smiling affectionately. “I love you,” pops out of his mouth softly, though he’d meant to rib the angel a little more instead.

Aziraphale chuckles a little, brows furrowed with a confused smile on his face. “I love you too, dear,” he shakes his head as the demon rubs the towel on his cheek, looking like he’s considering a fine wine rather than the thread count of terry cloth. “Hurry up and shower so I can take a bath,” he waves, and Crowley chuckles.

Crowley shuts the door, and smiles softly to himself. He stuffs the towel fully into his face, inhaling deeply. It smells like sandalwood and cedar, a hint of ozone around the edges. _Home _some deep part of himself whispers and he aches at the thought. He rubs at his wet eyes absent-mindedly and digs out the variety of vanilla-flavored shampoos and conditioners that Aziraphale’s feathered the bathroom with. _For him_. It makes his chest tight, but in a good way somehow, and he’s smiling even as he cries a little, pushing his face into the spray of the shower.

He doesn’t bother fluffing his hair back up, leaving it lank on his forehead as he prowls out of the bathroom and back to the light of Aziraphale’s bedroom. He’s fussing with a bookshelf now, previously buried under quilts, poking at the paperbacks. Crowley chuckles a little as he recognizes them. He’d stumbled on Aziraphale’s romance novel cabinet sometime in the eighties, bored and curious. He’d delicately plucked down the worn books, reading the back blurbs with an incredulous smile. He knew Aziraphale had some interesting reading habits, as he must as the foremost angel of books, but he hadn’t really expected _that_. Aziraphale had walked in on him fingering through one of them, curiously chuckling at a section with a bookmark tucked in, marking it as the good part to be read again and again.

Aziraphale had been incredibly embarrassed, stuffing himself between the demon and the cabinet, delicately removing the offending book from Crowley’s fingers. Crowley had apologized softly, unable to help giggling a little at the flushed angel.

“So that’s where you moved them,” he grins, startling the angel upright. He looks incredibly spooked, eyes darting between the demon and the bookshelf rapidly.

“Uh,” Aziraphale quickly draws the carefully folded up quilt on top of the shelves so that it unfolds over the books again. “Uh, yes.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley chuckles, loping towards him. “Read whatever you like, it honestly doesn’t matter to me, whatever makes you happy,” he gently caresses the angel’s cheek, smiling at him fondly.

Aziraphale looks up at him softly, sniffing a little. “O-of course,” he nods a little. The quilt tucks up into a folded-up bundle again. Crowley lays a soft kiss to his forehead, and heads over to the bed. “Go bathe while the hot water’s still up,” he gestures as he tugs back the mounds of quilts, and _cripes_, _there’s a lot of them_.

Aziraphale pops out of the room at that, leaving Crowley alone. He curls up under the covers, falling into a light doze as he waits for the angel to come back. Aziraphale’s bed is very, very soft, so soft so as to feel unsupportive, just a whole lot of _give_ with hardly anything holding him up. He props himself up with some of the numerous quilts, but if it weren’t winter and he chilled and tired, it wouldn’t really work for him. He blinkers awake as Aziraphale toddles back in perhaps an hour later, flushed and refreshed.

“Oh, you look adorable,” Aziraphale croons at the demon who’s nearly disappeared under quilts and pillows.

“’m not,” Crowley objects softly, stretching a little, “’m a ver’ seri’us dem’n.”

Aziraphale chortles at that. “Oh yes,” he pulls back the quilts and tucks himself in next to him, smoothing Crowley’s bangs back. “The most serious demon in the world,” he croons and kisses Crowley’s forehead as he looks grumpy at the attention. “Go back to sleep dear,” he chuckles as Crowley blearily looks over at him. Crowley sniffs a little and wiggles to get comfortable again, and Aziraphale gestures a paperback into his hands, pulling on his reading glasses.


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley wakes by himself sometime around noon the next day. He stretches and slowly unfurls himself from the cluster of quilts. He doesn’t feel rested, really, but it’s the closest he’s gotten in a long time. He sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes hard, and gets up to rifle through his suitcase for another outfit. It’s clear outside, the light pale and clean with the recent snow, so he just goes for a sweater and jeans.

He tugs his suitcase downstairs, cocking an ear as he hears Aziraphale talking to a customer. He pokes a head out of the one window that’s hinged, snooping and startling a middle-aged woman who was perusing the wall of books nearby.

“Morning,” he smirks, as she pants a little, holding her chest.

“Uhm,” she adjusts her overlarge glasses. “It’s nearly one in the afternoon,” she frowns at him and he shrugs flippantly. Aziraphale starts as he notices his head poking out and rushes over.

“Ah, hello dear,” he glows as he grins fondly at the demon and idly brushes Crowley’s hair out of his eyes.

“Morning,” he grins loosely. The woman glances between them, biting her lip and thinking hard. Crowley winks at her, causing her to start and walk away. Aziraphale chuckles a little, shaking his head.

“Do you want to stop by for dinner later, maybe?” Aziraphale asks, tilting his hip a little flirtily.

“Yeah,” Crowley nods. “Yeah, let’s go out for… steak or something. I think I could do meat again,” he itches his chin.

“Oooh,” Aziraphale grins gamely, “That sounds scrumptious.”

* * *

They do end up going out for steak that night. Crowley brings in ramen the next day for lunch, and then they go out for rib-eye sandwiches on Wednesday. Crowley’s getting close to having all of his plants moved out of his flat at this point, and he wasn’t really expecting to miss them, but it’s kind of… quiet without them around. There are still various pots tucked in corners or on tables, and he’s definitely going to always have a few plants around the flat, but he’s starting to really miss having them close by. He’s looking forward to putting in the fake-door so that he can just pop over and be with them whenever he wants to.

Aziraphale had mentioned he had a conference to be at on Thursday and Friday, but Crowley had been a bit busy memorizing the looks of pleasure on his face as he enjoyed his sandwiches. He’d heard it, sure, and was vaguely aware of it. Last year, he’d driven the angel up to this particular bookseller’s conference, and he had kind of expected that he would be doing the same this year. Last time, he’d spent most of the conference in his hotel room, pacing on his cell phone and helping Warlock through a meltdown as he realized that some of his belongings had been stolen. Well, _thrown out_, but it had taken a while for them to put the pieces together on that one.

He pulls up to the darkened shop mid-morning, frowning. There’s something of the tremulous panic there because he can tell Aziraphale’s not in, but he does his best to stuff it down. The shop’s quiet, its magicks not fully activated because no one’s inside to cause them to wind up. He thumbs at the ring, on his right ring finger today, and feels out where the angel is. He’s somewhere near Edinburgh, which is a little crazy. How’d he wind up there without Crowley driving him?

The conference wasn’t in Edinburgh last year, now that he thinks about it. Yes, of course, Aziraphale could definitely get around without the demon just fine, but… why hadn’t he told him? Why lie, about this?

He pulls out his phone, doing a little research on the conference Aziraphale is supposedly at. Now that he looks at it, the conference Aziraphale is claiming to be at is actually in _March_, not January. Crowley sighs deeply, rubbing his forehead. _I thought we were past this_.

He should head home, mope, and maybe work on his new contract a little more. He’d been planning to nettle Aziraphale today a little about the whole Gabriel contract he’d mentioned before they headed up to Tadfield. He’d promised him a copy but it had yet to materialize, and now, with this, Crowley’s skepticism is deepening to critical levels.

He pushes out of the Bentley after a bit more indecisiveness, and walks up to the bookstore. He has a key as he’s played at bookseller when Aziraphale went on trips sometimes. He uses it today because forcing the bookstore open with magic will probably ping Aziraphale’s radar, and he’s curious. _What are you hiding, angel?_

He’s never really sure what to expect of him, honestly. Six thousand years, and the angel’s always ambivalent, indecisive, immovable until suddenly running off on an impulse. Sure, Crowley does love that about him, so few surprises after all these years and all that. Doesn’t make times like this any easier, though.

The key thankfully works on both doors, but they’re cool and biting on his hands again, like the day when he’d come to pick up Aziraphale for the whole show-and-tell thing. The bookshop knows Crowley is safe and it’s fine for him to be here, but there’s also something here that the angel’s hiding very specifically from him. While it cannot step in and force the demon out, it can voice its displeasure in some ways, like blisteringly cold door handles.

Crowley peers around the dark bookstore, and he can feel the animosity emanating from the shop. He’s never really put a lot of thought into shop as an entity, or considered its magical makeup. It was just there, a building with a lot of protections appropriate for his angel; well-fortified, strong, with a deceptive exterior of dust and fading paint. He doesn’t wave the lights on, but tugs a torch out of his jacket and points it around the shop. The shop is very specifically making it dusky and dark, uninviting even though it should be light enough to see at least back to the till, if not all the way to the back.

Crowley’s dealt with spookier things, really. Dagon’s den on a good day was worse than this, and he’d been a glorified housekeeper for a while when he’d been exiled from Earth after curing plagues and refusing to talk about it. At least Dagon hadn’t come through with their threat of making him wear a sexy maid outfit, for which everyone was grateful (most specifically Crowley).

He steps up to the desk with the till where he knows Aziraphale files and keeps a lot of his paperwork. He doesn’t usually deign to snoop on the angel, but well, today it’s different, isn’t it? He shuffles through things, considering invoices and receipts. There are the normal orders, receipts for fast food, replacement of stock and bookbinding materials, but there’s a few unusual ones too. Two old-fashioned handwritten invoices catch his fancy, detailing works that he recognizes as related to demonic subjects. Aziraphale’s taken an interest in the occult before, and maybe now he was switching from prophecy into darker subject matter? _Ugh, maybe he’s trying to learn more about me_, Crowley grumbles, shoving the invoices back from whence they came. It’s a little unnerving, but nothing substantial, nothing that he can really grab onto.

He’s not really sure where Aziraphale’s moved his old reading desk with the new shop, somewhere in the back probably. He’s surely seen it with the time he’s spent here recently, but for some reason he can’t put a finger on, he’s pulled to the stacks, poking at the books. Aziraphale’s current shelving strategy is as mystifying as always, Marcus Aurelius filed next to Baltissare Castiglione.

He ends up at the shelf just outside of the vault, squinting at two new anthologies that stand out. They’re both printed in the last fifty years first off. One is for Shakespeare and one is for Marlowe, and they’re sitting right next to each other. It’s sensical shelving, and they stand out desperately next to the cacophony of nonsensical shelving choices around them. It could be random chance, whatever schema Aziraphale’s using creating one single permutation of true order. He softly moves to pull them out, appropriately tugging near the edges of the spines and not the top with the bare binding so as not to damage them. He’s startled to find that they are somehow stuck together and refuse to budge.

He feels the shop fighting him, wrestling against his pull as he stuffs the torch in his mouth and puts more of his body weight into a hearty yank at the two thick volumes. They jerk back finally and he hears a low, ominous _chunk_ from somewhere in the vault, followed by a series of quieter noises as something materializes behind that _chunk_.

His heart quivers a bit as he considers that. At the end of the day, does he really want to know what Aziraphale’s hiding? It might just be a wine cellar or something, but it could also very well be well… well he doesn’t know what, but something that might change his entire view of the angel. He could just stop at this point, walk out, and leave well enough alone.

_In for a penny, in for a pound_, he sniffs, and steps over the lip of the vault, considering the faint security lights on the floor. He’s never entered the vault before, so he can’t really tell what’s changed at first. He peers at the books on display, some so holy that just seeing them open hurts his eyes. He stalks past two displays like that and comes to a stop before a dark stairway, a bookcase pulled back to reveal it.

_Well, this is it_, he sighs, rubbing at his hair. He points his torch at the darkness, but the shop is doing its darnedest to keep him out, so he can’t even see the stairs. He only knows it’s a stairway from smell and his little thing with extra sensory awareness. He tucks the torch away as it’ll be useless with the shop being so bloody obstinate, and puts his hands out on both walls as he slowly, completely blindly, walks down the steps.

He stumbles a little painfully into the shut door, rubbing his nose. He’s not entirely comfortable with this complete blackness, panic trembling at his spine as he fumbles for the handle, but then his hand gets stuck to it, frozen.

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, forcing a hot jab of magical heat into his hand and roughly turning the handle. The door opens into the stairwell, so he has to awkwardly step out of the way, and as he does so, he’s dazzled by the light that floods back in.

He blinks, squinting against the new light, and steps into the darkened room. It’s swirling with _five_ demon’s traps, which is a little much honestly. He yelps as he suddenly gets caught by something, and oh, look, there’s one here on the wall with the door. _For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, don’t you know a thing about demon’s traps, you ninny_.

Crowley slowly drifts into the center of the room, awkwardly tugged between the six traps, and begins spinning a little in antigravity. He’s considering his options when he feels a panicked pawing at his being, and suddenly, Aziraphale materializes out of thin air, crystalline mace in hand.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Crowley drawls, spun upside down with his hair hanging in his face.

“Uh,” Aziraphale looks around wildly, panting, and makes a soft, low noise as he realizes exactly where they are. “Oh, oh no.”

“’Oh no?’” Crowley gripes irritably. “That’s all you got, angel?” 

“Uhm, I, I can explain,” Aziraphale offers, tossing the mace into the ether as he realizes he’s still got a hand clamped around it. He begins frowning, trying to figure out how exactly Crowley managed to get grabbed by the trap, and how best to get him out.

“Oh, please do. Looks like I’ve got all day!” he gestures sharply towards the ceiling as his body has twirled that way.

“I, uhm,” Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise, quickly calling up his book of notes, and making it float just there. He thumbs through the pages manically, all of them heavily highlighted, scribbled and flagged. “It, it’s, it shouldn’t have grabbed you, I, hm,” he looks flustered.

Crowley peers a little at the runes on the circle he’s in view of right now, one of the side walls, and quirks his head. “Why do you have six demon’s traps set up for a _prince of hell_, Aziraphale? What in the world are you doing?” he gestures sharply, and winces as it forces him to spin tighter.

“I, uhm,” Aziraphale pops over to one of the circles, squinting at a rune and then shaking his head.

“Okay, fine. What’s the first rule of trapping a demon, Aziraphale?” Crowley grumbles, pinning his arms to his chest so that he’ll stop spinning himself with gestures.

“Uhh,” he worriedly stuffs a pen in his mouth, thumbing at one of the inner circles on the ceiling.

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley snarls, making to grab for him as he gets a little close in his worrying at the sigils.

“Oh, uh, sorry, what did you say?” he looks over at Crowley as his glasses clatter off his face, shattering on the floor. His yellow eyes glower down at him, upside down.

“_Close_ your circles, angel. Why did you put a bloody demon trap… on the wall… WITH A DOOR?” he gestures sharply at it, forcing himself to spin nauseatingly for a few moments.

“O-oh,” Aziraphale drops the pen from his lips, looking dejectedly at the obviously broken circle. “I uh, I guess I wasn’t thinking,” he laughs weakly. Crowley makes a deeply frustrated noise at that, rubbing his face. Aziraphale steps up and slowly begins unwinding that particular trap, hoping that doing so will free him. Crowley jerks a little in the air as the trap gives, but doesn’t crash down to the floor, still spinning softly.

“You still haven’t explained,” he grumbles softly, sideways now and tilting awkwardly to point his head at him.

“I uh, you should be free now,” Aziraphale whines, looking upset and rapidly paging through his notes. “It’s only supposed to hold uhm, one, one _particular _demon, and it’s, it’s not you,” he offers, determinedly not looking at Crowley as he curls upside down again.

“Well, traps are never that specific. These are just for princes, which, like _what the hell Aziraphale_?” he growls and attempts another grapple towards the angel unsuccessfully.

“Yes, but, you’re not a prince, so why are you still… there?” Aziraphale grumbles, jerking his hands at the demon who’s still spinning softly.

Crowley chews his lips a little at that. “I mean. I’m not. I’m not,” he gestures a little petulantly, getting louder as Aziraphale’s gaze grows more and more skeptical, “I’m not!” 

“_What?” _Aziraphale gawps, forgetting what he’d just been going to investigate entirely.

“I mean, I, I didn’t want to be a prince!” he grumbles. “Look, y’re, y’re not makin’ this about me!” he huffs, and snarls loudly as his fussing forces him to spin tightly again. Aziraphale sighs deeply, rubbing his forehead. _This day just keeps getting better and better_.

“’m gonna try something,” Crowley sniffs and Aziraphale quirks a brow at him. Crowley holds his hands in front of his chest, as if he’s praying, focusing very hard on the angel’s ring on his finger. His chest burns as he pulls, attempting to lug himself out of the traps by ensconcing himself in the angel’s protections.

“O-oh,” Aziraphale fingers his ring cautiously as he realizes what he’s doing, and he closes his eyes to focus on magically grabbing Crowley from the quicksand of the trap. There’s an audible pop as they both get expelled from the dungeon, suddenly sprawling in the vault upstairs. Crowley flops back on the ground, glad to just have gravity working on him again.

“You’re a real piece of work,” he grunts as he lays there, watching Aziraphale not meet his eyes and dust himself off as he stands.

Aziraphale sighs finally, looking at him guiltily. “I suppose we should talk,” he offers, looking tired.

“Yeah I guess,” Crowley sneers, shoving off the angel’s hand as he offers to help him up. Part of him wants to just stalk off, go spend another half-century in America. Maybe go on a joyride through the galaxy, or even better, walk up to heaven and gut Gabriel himself and get himself martyred in the process. Some pain of the physical sort might be good about now to go with the burning behind his eyes, aching down his throat.

He shifts on his feet, considering his options, Aziraphale shamefacedly staring at his carpet behind him waiting to see what he does and ceding him the control here. He stalks into the front of the shop, pulling out one of the leather chairs set aside for people to ostensibly read in. He gestures, smiling unkindly, for the angel to sit, “Let’s have a little chat, then.”

He positions himself against the desk with the till across from the angel, crossing his arms over his chest and jittering. Aziraphale sits, sighing deeply and looking anywhere but the demon.

“So, I’d like to help you,” Crowley starts, perfectly mimicking Azirphale’s voice with a little miracle, “but you just won’t let me _in_.” He purrs it with a sneer, and Aziraphale huffs a flustered sigh, fingers tugging worriedly at each other.

“I think that’s uncalled for,” he grumbles, tears pricking at his eyes despite his best efforts to keep them at bay.

“Well I don’t know what’s called for, in this situation. What’s a former archangel doing with a trap set for princes of hell in his brand-new cellar? Planning to set up a new contract with Lucifer without me, angel?” he’s talking too quickly, words bumbling a little over one-another as he rocks in place, leg bobbing.

“Crowley,” Azirpahale grumbles, finally meeting his eyes.

“I know I’ve been pretty easygoing, but I have to warn you, not all demons are like me,” he gives him a sharp smile, eyes hard.

“Crowley it’s not like _that,_” Aziraphale huffs, getting up as he’s buzzing with anxious energy. “It’s-it’s,” he grumbles, gesturing as he paces.

“If you wanted a book that badly, I could get it for you,” Crowley squints at him.

“_She’s trying to kill you_,” Aziraphale hisses, face flushing as he quivers with anxious energy. “I, well, she-she’s…” he runs a hand through his curls, huffing. “She doesn’t want you dead, but she’s, I don’t know what she’s doing,” he whimpers, shaking his hands in front of him. He’s been trying to piece together the _whys_ of this particular prince’s actions, and he’d been really hoping he’d be closer to an answer before the actual summoning. Unfortunately, he hasn’t gotten much more information since the hellhound incident.

“She?” Crowley drums his fingers on his arm, thinking. ‘Prince’ isn’t a gendered title in hell, so there definitely are female princes. Most of the demons that high up go with neutral or masculine pronouns though.

“Rosier,” Aziraphale offers softly, looking worn and upset at having to give this information up. “Her name is Rosier.”

“Ooooh no,” Crowley heaves a deep sigh at that, rubbing his face with both of his hands. Aziraphale looks up at him, surprised.

“Y-you know her, then?”

Crowley gives a high laugh at that. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I know her. So, what, she was the one behind the holy water?” He squints at Aziraphale, rubbing his arms like he’s cold.

“Uhm… yes,” Aziraphale takes a step towards him, cautiously.

Crowley considers the floor, eyes flicking up at the angel a few times. “What, you expect me to tell you about it?” he jeers.

“Crowley, please, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale sighs, and flops back into the leather chair looking miserable.

“You always look for permission after the fact, angel,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “It’d be nice to know ahead of time,” he gives him a wincing smile.

Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his forehead hard with his knuckles. “I just… I just wanted to protect you,” his voice goes high with tears, his lip curling as he tries to suppress them unsuccessfully.

Crowley sighs at that, and sinks back, letting himself fall to the floor in front of the desk.

“D’ya remember the church, angel?” he asks softly after a moment, Aziraphale sniffling as he stares pointedly away from the demon.

“Of course,” Aziraphale growls around his tears. “You saved my books,” his lip curls and trembles as he meets Crowley’s eyes. He’s sure that Crowley’s leaving. For good, this time. _I can’t do anything right. Why did you ever think I could?_

“Yes, but,” Crowley sighs, gesturing a little, “we worked together.”

Aziraphale sniffs miserably. “Both of us would’ve died if we hadn’t. I mean, just a discorporation really, no harm done, but,” Crowley shrugs, rolling his wrist. _We’re always better together, we work so **well **together it’s scary sometimes_.

Aziraphale rubs his face, sniffing. “What were you planning to do, once you caught her?” Crowley’s eyes are soft as he looks at Aziraphale and he has to close his eyes against the demon’s compassion. _I don’t deserve you_. _I don’t deserve **this**._

“I, uh,” Aziraphale sighs, shaking his head. “I was still working that out,” he frowns a little, gulping back his tears.

Crowley wiggles his feet, shrugging his shoulders back and forth. “That’s not true, angel,” he offers after a moment, and Aziraphale looks over at him with a hunted look.

“Look,” Aziraphale huffs, as Crowley begins getting to his feet. “I, I was planning to…” he sighs deeply, eyes distant.

“Kill her?” Crowley offers. “Like you did with those warlocks?”

Aziraphale looks up at him, mortified. He was _sure_ that he had done that quietly enough that _no one_, not even Michael upstairs would’ve noticed. “I was going to follow up with them myself, once I was well enough, actually,” he smirks. “What a surprise to find them so utterly obliterated that they practically never existed.”

Aziraphale shivers a little at that. “Look,” he sighs deeply. “We’re on our own here. We have to prove we… we can’t just sit back and take this.”

Crowley tilts his head, looking incredibly feline for once, a cat considering a mouse that’s just gone terrifically still. “I’ve generally found that a good scare works far better than a mysterious death.”

Aziraphale sighs, finally pulling out his handkerchief to dab at his face.

“Are you leaving?” Aziraphale asks softly, looking down.

Crowley inhales deeply at that, looking away from him and sucking on his teeth. “Where were you today?” he asks pointedly after a moment.

Aziraphale sinks his head into his hand, looking bitter. “There’s a fae I’ve been working with, trying to get proper books on demons,” he gestures. “He demands that you do the full rigamarole, offerings, twenty course meal, groveling,” he rubs his eye with a knuckle.

“Sounds like a tosser,” Crowley smirks.

“Yeah,” Aziraphale nods. “He didn’t even have anything good, either. I saw his collections as I went in with the first offerings, and they’re all just copies of human books.”

Crowley chuckles at that, “Yeah the fae are weird about books. You know, I’m right here. Demon,” he waves a little and Aziraphale glowers at him. “I know a lot about demons, actually,” he keeps waving, exaggeratively.

“Yes, I know, dear,” Aziraphale sighs.

Aziraphale’s shredding the arm of the chair he’s in unapologetically, waiting for Crowley to leave. Waiting for Crowley to leave and pelt his ring back at him, like he deserves.

“So, was the contract from Gabriel a lie, too?” Crowley asks softly, looking tired.

“What?” Aziraphale quirks his head at him. “No, no, that’s, I just need to find it,” he huffs, getting up and heading into the back of the shop, peering worriedly after Crowley as he does so. Crowley follows him after a moment, walking slowly and trailing a hand over things as if he’s returning to a place after a long time away. Aziraphale pops back in front of him after a moment, brandishing a piece of parchment with a broken wax seal on it.

Crowley takes it carefully as it’s a _real_ contract, and isn’t that interesting? He reads through it slowly, considering the arguments and the carefully worded clauses.

“I fucking hate angels,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his temple and sinking into the chair in Aziraphale’s reading nook. Aziraphale peers over his shoulder, looking concerned.

“What, it, it says they’ll leave me alone. Right?”

“Well,” Crowley shakes his head, “It’s more like, they’ve marked you so that _only_ Gabriel, Beelzebub, and any other archangel currently active, can do… anything to you. Preferably kill you, I’m sure, but they’re not being specific.” Aziraphale pales at that, staring at Crowley in disbelief. “It’s about what they’re _not_ saying, Aziraphale. They’re saying, _no one_, _but…_ The signers and triplicate are cute, but it’s just fluff. If you’re in the signer-category, you’re immune to the clauses here.”

“O-oh,” Aziraphale wilts a little at that, sinking into another chair that until moments ago used to be covered in dusty newspapers.

Crowley quirks his head, considering the contract more. “I think it might actually be disputable though,” he sighs. “Yeah, would you look at that,” he smiles, chuckling softly.

“What?” Aziraphale leans forward in his chair nervously.

“They tried to force you to fall. ‘Excised from the choirs.’ That destroys all the rest of the contract, because only _one_ person can do that,” he smirks at Aziraphale. “Not that She’ll step up to destroy the contract, but y’know. We could challenge it in Limbo, actually,” he shrugs and tosses the parchment to Aziraphale after a moment, and the angel has to jerk around to catch it as it floats down in diagonal swipes.

Crowley drums his fingers on the arms of the chair, considering nothing in particular, really watching Aziraphale through his periphery. Aziraphale is watching him back worriedly, knuckles white on his knees.

“If I tell you about Rosier, what then?” he finally looks over at the angel. “You going to go take her on by yourself?” he sneers a little.

Aziraphale sighs, rolling his eyes and looking away from him. “No,” he grumbles, giving Crowley a sour look. “I suppose we should work together, hm?”

“Yeah, it’d be nice, for a change,” Crowley smirks thinly at him. He sighs and drops his face into a hand. “Give me a little time, Aziraphale,” he says quietly. “I’ll be back, but give me a little time.”

“W-what will you do?” Aziraphale asks, tremulous. “Y-you don’t have to, to tell me directly, just… just don’t go and-” he swallows a sob poorly, tears prickling down his cheeks.

Crowley grimaces, because he’d wanted, and _not wanted_, Aziraphale to ask. Because if Aziraphale made him say, “No, I won’t hurt myself,” then he won’t. He’ll stand on the edge of the cliff and he’ll rock on his feet, but he’ll think back to this moment, and make a frustrated noise and stalk off. _Fine_.

“I won’t… do anything to…” he grumbles, knowing he’s writing a contract with his words, and knowing that Aziraphale won’t accept it unless he admits _I will not kill myself; I will not willfully put myself in harm’s way_. “I won’t hurt myself. On purpose, or…” he gestures, “otherwise.” He rubs his face, shivering a little. “Happy?” he grumbles a little.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and finally nods his head a little, rubbing at his cheeks. “I’ll… I’ll do the same,” he nods a little. “I’ll… be here, when you come back,” his voice strangles a little through that, but he manages.

Crowley nods, sighing deeply. “You should just do two traps,” he offers softly, staring at the rug. “You don’t need more than that for someone like… like that,” he grumbles, rubbing his cheek. “You’ll kill yourself if you try to hold someone unwilling like that with that many traps.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods curtly, filing that information away and nervously watching him with quick darts of his eyes.

Crowley toys with the hem of his shirt for a moment. It’s time for him to leave, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to curl in Aziraphale’s lap and sooth the pain and anxiety he’s caused today. He wants to run off and scream at the stars. He wants to play in traffic, step in front of an oncoming train. He wants a lot of things, but you don’t always get what you want.

He stands up, adjusting his jacket and looking sad. “I love you, Aziraphale,” he holds his eyes, letting him see the truth that resonates to his very core. Aziraphale covers his mouth with a hand, tears springing forth unbidden. He looks away, nodding as he forces back another sob.

“Go easy on yourself, angel,” Crowley steps up to the armchair he’s in, and delicately thumbs away tears with a kindness and a loss behind his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.” He brings Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips, kissing his serpent ring and making him see it, making him sit here with it in this moment. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale manages, voice mucked with tears.

“I know you love me too,” he smiles ruefully, brandishing the ring that’s still on his finger. He slowly walks out, offering goodbyes to the walls with soft drags of his fingertips, and it’s a slow enough march that Aziraphale manages to whisper it back to him through his tears, “I love you too.”

* * *

Crowley tugs the last of his plants into the shop after that. He carries the sculpture in with inhuman strength and a little obfuscation so people don’t peer too closely, and stuffs it into a back corner. He still hasn’t put in a till or anything for the front of the shop, but he’s frankly in love with the place anyway. He may never put in a front of the shop, just leave it with a drip cloth and a cheap desk with his laptop on it.

He’s going away for a bit, so he puts in some drip hoses, and a few other watering systems, tweaking the sun lamps so that they’re on a set schedule. He can pop back, or call and ask Kai to stop in, but it’s good to have a contingency plan. He sits for a bit with one of his night blooming cactuses. It’s very upset with him for the move as it had been about to flower and that only happens once a year or so, and it needs _respect_, thank you very much. He waits patiently through the evening, giving the plant his sole attention, and yes, his respect.

As the sun sets, a single, white flower unfurls for him, soft and delicate. He caresses the thing, offering his thanks for its forgiveness, for its love and devotion, letting him see it like this, before he goes away for a while. He prunes and cares for the lot of them, blessing them all without even realizing it. _Be well, you are loved_.

He leaves the shop around midnight, feeling stretched taut and a little tired. He looks up to find Aziraphale’s silhouette in his upstairs window, watching him. The angel quivers a little as he realizes Crowley’s noticed him. Crowley blows him a kiss, smiling softly, and walks to where he’s parked the Bentley.

Once home, he pulls out a pad of paper, carmine red, and jots a quick note on it with a ballpoint. He folds it up into a square and flicks it into the air, and it disappears. He’s going to go visit an old friend of his that he hasn’t seen in quite a long time. He’s a vampire, and he doesn’t like phones, so they do this, magic notes flittering from one inbox to other. There’s a five-hour time difference, so Crowley heads off to bed, figuring he’ll get a response by the time he wakes up.

* * *

Florida has changed a lot since the seventies. It’s also not changed a lot, too. Leonard Cohen, no relation to the musician, just a name he’s been using for the past few centuries, likes beaches and water, perhaps just to spite the whole thing with vampires and running water. He’d met Crowley while he had a villa in the Mediterranean, and now, his home is not quite so stately, but it is still too close to water for any proper vampire. He lives in a small gated community, updating his mobile home every few decades, and keeping the local retirement community alive and well so that he could continue feeding on them.

It’s overcast today, so Leonard could actually come out and greet him, but Crowley’s not going to make him do that. He parks the Bentley next to Leonard’s silver Miata and pulls the key out from under one of the pots of aloe vera next to the front door. He screws it into the door, letting himself into the dark front hall that protects the vampire from sunny days. He chunks the front door shut with a shoulder, ensuring it’s safe, and then carefully unlocks the inner door with a key that Leonard gave him a long, long time ago. He rubs his arms as he makes it into Leonard’s home proper because he tends to like things quite a bit cooler than Crowley does.

“Well, well,” Leonard lopes up with his arms spread out for a hug. Crowley tugs him into a rough hug, genuinely glad to see the man.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he smirks a little, affectionately cuffing Crowley on the chin as they break the embrace.

Leonard had experienced a bit of life by the time he was turned. His hair is thinning, and his mustache is peppered with white and gray. His dark skin pales a little gray with his inability to tan, and he tends to wear loose-fitting linen suits with jaunty hats. He has a friendly face with a loose smile and open eyes that makes him easy to trust. This is very useful for someone who has to explicitly ask permission to enter any building, house, or home.

“It’s good to see you,” Crowley sighs, leaning his head against Leonard’s forehead. They’ve known each other for near to seven centuries, and it really is genuinely uplifting to find someone that you can stand, that you can care about, who will continue to be around for as long as you might be around.

Leonard smiles, tucking him in a bear hug at that, rocking him back and forth. After a moment he lets him go, patting him on the shoulder and gesturing towards his kitchen counter. Crowley squints at the teal, speckled Formica and black barstools. Last he’d been here, Leonard had been decorating pretty extensively towards googie theming, oblong tables and weird, abstract stars here and there.

Leonard keeps up with things a bit more than most other old things, but since he favors the retired these days, he’s always going to be a little out of date. Crowley drops his suitcase near the couch, and brings a cloth bag up onto the counter. Leonard loves soda, any sort of soda, so Crowley always brings him cases and cases of glass and plastic bottles, collecting them from all over the world. He begins tugging out the colorful cardboard six-packs, and Leonard coos excitedly.

“Ooh, I remember this one, it’s lime flavored isn’t it?” he grins, squinting at the label written in Tagalog.

“Think so? Maybe we just thought so since it’s green,” he shrugs, plunking down a blue-colored cola next.

He waves Crowley off as the demon goes to keep pulling out soda, as there’s currently four six-packs out and that’s apparently enough to start. “So, I hear we have you to thank for something,” he gives him a fanged smile as he cracks off the bottle cap on the edge of the countertop.

Crowley chuckles a little. “Didn’t do too much, really,” he sighs, rubbing his face and pulling off his glasses. Leonard keeps it dim in his lair, and there’s no windows for car lights or anything else to blare light in at them, so it’s safe to take them off.

“Still,” Leonard tilts his opened soda at him, and Crowley obligingly tinks the neck of his soda against it. “Good that there’s still a world around to be in.”

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs as he takes a deep drag of the soda. It’s minty actually, not lime at all. “How’ve you been?” he asks, looking a little tired. He feels a bit bad since he only comes to Leonard when he’s at his rope’s end and needs someone to talk to. Leonard really doesn’t mind, though. He likes helping people, and Crowley’s a fascinating subject, honestly. He’d also done Leonard an incredible favor, early on, laughing, but witnessing his aching guilt: _Just because you’re a vampire, doesn’t mean ya gotta have sex. Just be you. **Do** you. That’s all you can do. _

Crowley had sent Leonard a suite of asexual pride flags a few years ago, and the vampire had cried like a baby when he opened the packages. Crowley had let him live with himself and finally start working through the thronging ache of _I’m broken_, _I’m wrong_. He was more than happy to sit with the demon and help him work though his own aches and pains.

“Well,” Leonard swirls his soda a little, “The government keeps screwing with Medicare, driving us all crazy.” He gestures around them at the retirement community he takes care of. “Most of my tenants end up stuck, mid-year, when they hit the stupid donut hole,” he grumbles. “They’re all old cranky New Yorkers, so they don’t like me helping, but y’know,” he smirks a little at him, _I help them anyway_.

Crowley chuckles at that. “Your guys’ health care system is weird,” Crowley wrinkles his nose a little, taking another sip.

“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s gonna change _anytime_ soon at this rate,” he grumbles.

Crowley shrugs ineffectually, toying with a stray bit of cardboard on the packaging of the six-pack they’re currently drinking. Leonard sips his soda, carefully letting the silence settle between them. Crowley takes a while to open up about whatever he needs to talk about, usually.

“Ask me about Armageddon,” he offers, eyes resolutely on the table and setting his drink aside.

“Ah, was that what that was? _The_ Armageddon?” Leonard gives him a surprised look.

“Yeah,” Crowley rests his forehead in his hand as he continues worrying the lip of a piece of cardboard off of the six-pack. “Yeah, it finally happened.”

“Well, no,” Leonard points at him with the drink in his hand. “No, we’re all still here, aren’t we?”

Crowley shrugs a little, nodding. “Yeah, it’s… yeah,” he sniffs a little. “We uh…” he sighs deeply, bringing his other hand up to hold his head up as well. “They made me deliver the antichrist,” he states, quietly.

“Wow,” Leonard’s eyebrows shoot up, and he considers the bubbles of soda he has left in this bottle. “How’d that go?”

“Oh, uh,” Crowley pops up and cricks his neck. “It wasn’t like that. Just gave me a basket with a baby in it and an address. _Go here, do this_.”

“Crazy that they chose you,” Leonard tilts his head, considering him.

“Yeah,” Crowley rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms on his chest. “Lucifer’s still got a boner for me, I guess,” he waves a hand, eliciting a sharp bark of laughter from the vampire. Crowley smiles at him, and pulls out another soda, something ginger and lemon flavored. He snaps the cap off with a claw and offers it to him.

“Ah, thank you,” he nods, taking it.

“I uh, I convinced Aziraphale that we should try… raising the antichrist,” he sighs. “Not like, parents, but…” he harrumphs, “mentors?”

“Okay,” Leonard squints at him, not following the logic, “but why?”

“We thought, maybe, if an angel and demon exert their influence on him, he’ll end up… human. Not evil, not good, just stubbornly in-between,” he wiggles his hand to suggest a midground.

“Ah,” Leonard nods. “Did he go along with it?”

“Oh, yeah. It was…” Crowley heaves a big sigh. “I had to present as female for eight years, and it was hard,” he rubs his nose grumpily. “I was the nanny and Aziraphale was the gardener,” he frowns as Leonard cackles at that. “What?”

“Aziraphale as a gardener? Shouldn’t he have been the nanny?” he wipes at his eyes, still chuckling a little.

“He’s terrible with kids,” Crowley raises his brow, suppressively. “I mean he’s, he’s in love with the antichrist, but he usually isn’t great with kids.”

“Well, alright,” Leonard nods a little, still looking amused.

Crowley sighs deeply again, looking away from Leonard. “In the end, we got the wrong kid,” he grumbles, lips curling a little, but he manages to school back the grimace and tears after a moment. “I love Warlock, but he’s… we spent eleven years with him, and he’s… human. Totally, completely, human,” he waves dismissively.

“Oh dear,” Leonard leans in, looking interested.

Crowley shifts a little on his barstool, looking flustered. “On his eleventh birthday, he was supposed to get a hellhound. He didn’t. He wasn’t the antichrist. We fucked up.”

“How’d that happen?” Leonard tilts his head, gently looking away from Crowley’s eyes so he won’t feel nettled. He furrows his brows as he notes the glittering gold ring on a chain around his neck. _That’s new._

“When I dropped off the antichrist, they were supposed to just, y’know, switch ‘em,” he gestures at a juggling motion. “But they screwed up, and the wrong couple got the wrong kid.”

Leonard nods a little at that, sipping his soda. “So, we… we did a lot of dumb stuff,” he grunts, not wanting to think about the bandstand, Hastur and Ligur, Aziraphale _gone_. “In the end, we ended up on the spot, and just were kind of… supportive,” he chuckles weakly. “You know, just two powerful beings backing up a boy who has the power to change the world,” he grimaces a little, and grumpily wipes at his eyes.

“What’s he like?” Leonard asks softly, noting Crowley’s flickers of suppressed emotion and deflection. _We’ll get there_.

“What, Adam?” Crowley asks, plucking up his mint soda again.

“He’s named _Adam?_” Leonard smirks incredulously.

“Yes,” Crowley chuckles. “He’s… I dunno, he’s a twelve-year-old kid with a lot of magic,” he shrugs, looking away from him again.

“And Aziraphale likes him?” Leonard prods.

Crowley sighs, tipping his head back and downing the soda without tasting it. The carbonation feels good, and he can almost convince himself that it’s alcohol, that it’ll make him feel better. “Yeah, he’s… I don’t know what it is, he likes teens and young adults with magic,” he shrugs.

Leonard twitches his mouth around, considering how best to word this in a way that won’t set Crowley off.

“Do you like Adam?” he manages. Not quite _How does that make you feel? _but it might help him hone in on it.

“I uh, I mean, of course. He’s a kid,” Crowley shrugs, shaking his head, and looking away from him.

Leonard gives him a sardonic look. _You can lie all you want, Crowley, but that’s not why you stopped by today, is it?_

“I, okay,” Crowley grumbles, pulling out a lemon and ginger soda for himself. “He reminds me of Lucifer.” He looks incredibly grumpy as he cracks off the bottlecap, sniffing the drink before sipping at it.

“Ah,” Leonard nods a little, considering that. “I suppose he is his kid, after all.”

“Well,” Crowley wiggles his hand a little, equivocating. “He changed it so… he is, and he isn’t,” he shrugs. “It’s how we, er, he stopped it,” he gestures.

Leonard nods, taking another sip of his soda. The silence drags for a moment, Crowley ticking his fingers on his glass bottle.

“It’s not his fault,” he sighs.

“Of course, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get to have a response to that. Lucifer has been…” he sighs deeply, scratching his ear. “A pain?” he waves his hand a little. Crowley chuckles and rolls his eyes, _that’s an understatement_.

“He… he has little mannerisms like him, too. Hell, I was showing him how to do a glamour, disguise his eyes, and I let him go whole hog, y’know, go wild. He made himself look more adult, and,” he groans, rubbing his temple, “he looks like him from before the Fall _so much_.”

“He has eye problems too?” Leonard quirks his head as Crowley glowers up at him.

“Yeah, got the whole, glowing red eye thing,” he gestures. “And, fuckin’… Aziraphale’s just like, _oh, you shouldn’t have taught him to glamour, just let him learn how to calm down_,” he mimics him in a high, falsetto voice.

Leonard huffs a deep sigh at that. “Aziraphale looks pretty human, though,” he idly ticks the bottle against the counter. Crowley had actually helped Leonard hide his fangs not long after they’d met. Before that, he’d mumbled and tucked his teeth a lot if he hadn’t fed in a bit.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his temple. “I—” he grumbles. “I didn’t come here to talk about that, sorry.”

“You can talk about whatever you want, Crowley,” Leonard smiles at him. “Shall we head to the couch? It looks like you want to slouch around.”

“Sure, yeah,” he sighs, tucking his drink into his palm and pushing himself up off of the barstool.

Leonard settles in a striped, plush recliner while Crowley tucks his feet next to him on the couch. He tugs a thin blanket off the top of the couch around himself, managing to look small and childish.

“I can turn down the air, if you like,” Leonard offers.

“’s okay, for now,” Crowley shrugs a little. Leonard frowns, getting up to go finger the dial up a few degrees.

“So, what did you want to talk about, then?” he drops back into the recliner, and plucks up his soda, half-gone now.

Crowley drums his fingers on the arm of the couch, eyes distant. He shouldn’t talk about the exchange of bodies. They had agreed not to talk about it with the doctors in Limbo, but well… Leonard’s different, isn’t he? He’s friends with Leonard for many reasons, though, and one of them had been this: a horrific plague and torrential rains hounding one small town near a muddy, forgotten bay in the thirteenth century. Crowley had been forced to stand by, hands tied, as the angels punished another cluster of humans for the errors of the few, making an example. The thing was, it didn’t quite work out how they’d planned. An old, grumpy moor had stationed himself in the local pub, and he held it against the storm, against the plagues and everything else that they threw at him.

Vampires need to be invited in, given hospitality, and by their very nature, they must violate that sacred hospitality to survive. Leonidas, as he was going by at the time, had a knack with that kind of magic, the making of a home, a place of safety to break bread, thrive, and be well. He jeered and toasted at the archangels who found they could not enter his domain, his hearth and home, and he held his own, keeping a small group of humans safe and healthy in the heart of the biblical storm. 

Leonard had already proven he was plenty capable of holding his own against heaven and hell. Any friend of Crowley’s was a potential target, and Leonard had slammed his door in the face of demons and angels plenty of times throughout the ages. _Sorry, not interested. Leave a pamphlet, heathens. _

If there was _anyone_ in the world Crowley would tell, it would be him.

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” he sighs, rubbing his face and vibrating a little.

“Tell Beelzebub they can kiss my ass,” Leonard sniffs pointedly, making Crowley snort.

“No, it’s actually a little worse than that, this time,” he pulls his knees up to his chest, and leans his chin on them. Leonard waits, watching the jittering demon as he works up the nerve to speak. “They weren’t happy… with how it all turned out. Of course,” he sighs, and rubs his eye with a knuckle. “Aziraphale had this… prophecy book, he’d been looking for, for a really long time. One of the accurate ones,” he gestures a little.

Leonard’s brow furrows at that. He doesn’t put a lot of stock in prophecies.

“It actually was… it helped,” he shrugs, smiling because it’s true. “One of the prophecies told us to… uh, change… change faces.”

His eyes tick from the floor and up to Leonard’s face a few times, trying to register a response from the vampire. “Okay,” he swirls the remains of his lemon and ginger soda. “How did that play out, then?”

“Uh…” Crowley sighs deeply. “It was… it was the worst… thirteen? days of my life,” he sighs, rubbing his face. “Just _waiting_. Just having to sit around, pretend to be Aziraphale, and try to calmly wait for them to take us.” He releases a breath shakily. It had also been hard to be away from the angel for so long, only stopping in together at the park once a day, having dinner once or twice but not every night. He’d returned to the bookstore each evening, panting in terror that it’d be on fire, and Aziraphale _gone_. He’d had to calm himself by worrying at Aziraphale’s hands, _his hands_ in Aziraphale’s body. _Yes, yes, he’s okay,_ he’d sooth, petting his face with trembling hands that weren’t his. _Just breathe, you’ll see him tomorrow, it’s fine_.

“I…” Crowley sighs. “Before… the apocalypse,” he rubs his nose, “Aziraphale discorporated. There was a fire. W-we… we fought, before that,” he gulps wetly. Leonard’s eyebrows dart up, and he leans forward a little. “It was… bad,” Crowley sighs lamely, dabbing at his face with the thin blanket.

“I can imagine,” Leonard tugs out an old, soft handkerchief with few useful and soothing charms on it. He tosses it to the demon with a soft smile. “Tell me about it.”

Crowley grumbles a little, wiping his face. “He… he lied to me,” Crowley sighs, looking tired. “He lied again, yesterday. ‘s why I’m here.”

“Ah,” Leonard sighs. “I’m listening, just going to top myself off,” he wiggles his empty bottle at the demon. He gets up and plucks a bottle of the blue cola, and a bubble-gum pink fizzy thing with a label in a language that he can’t parse.

“We got the book of prophecy from a girl. A witch, I guess,” he sighs, rubbing his nose. “Aziraphale kept it, and read it, and he knew, he _knew_,” he growls, crunching the handkerchief in his hand angrily. “And he lied to my face,” he sighs.

“He knew what?” Leonard pops the bottlecap off with a small bottle opener he’s pulled out from somewhere.

“Where the antichrist was. We were going to… ugh,” he sighs, rubbing his face. “I wanted to… kill him,” he grumbles, looking miserable. “But _I_ can’t kill him. I’m a demon, it’s not really great to be seen killing the antichrist, Lucifer’s _son_, as a demon, y’know?”

Leonard quirks a brow at him. Crowley doesn’t like killing at all, so the fact that he got to that point is certainly telling of his mental state at that point. Something like, ‘desperate beyond all belief.’ Perhaps it’s to be expected, considering it was the _end of the bloody world_.

“Aziraphale wanted me to do it, he didn’t understand. As an angel, he’d be _lauded_. Another great victory for Heaven, hallelujah,” he grumbles.

“But neither of you did that,” he offers. Crowley shakes his head. “It’s probably for the best, honestly. Jesus didn’t get killed by demons,” he gestures and Crowley smirks knowingly at him.

“It’s not like they didn’t try,” he shakes his head. “Part of the reason I whisked him around.” Leonard’s mouth pops open at that, surprised. _Oh, right, you’re ancient_. To be fair, Leonard’s only got nine centuries under his belt, nearly a millennium, but not quite.

“So, okay,” he rubs his temple, thinking. “Aziraphale refuses to tell you about the antichrist’s location. Why couldn’t you just locate him yourself?”

“I could now,” Crowley shrugs. “Before I knew him personally, before he’d really come into power, he had this big old _hidden_ charm on him,” he gestures at a large dome. “No one knew where he was.”

“Huh,” Leonard nods, taking another sip of his soda.

“So… we say a lot of stupid things to each other,” he grumbles. “I want to take him away, I… Aziraphale, take Aziraphale,” he gestures, looking up at Leonard as he realizes he’s flipped topics perhaps a little too quickly. Leonard nods. “So, I said, ‘Let’s go to Alpha Centari,’ and he just…” Crowley makes a tight noise of frustration, tears pricking forth.

“He just?” Leonard asks softly, as Crowley cries and stares at the carpet.

“It’s… well, it _was_ never enough,” he grumbles. “Now he wants to fucking go at any time of day,” he rubs his face irritably.

Leonard frowns at him, not understanding. “He’s… well, okay, sorry. I got off track,” he grumbles. He returns to his soda, finally, sipping and enjoying the lemon and ginger.

“It’s fine, Crowley. Take all the time you need,” he gives him a soft, welcoming smile.

“We, uh, we changed bodies, and… they took us,” he sighs. “I got a public, mock trial,” he sneers a little. “Just a strawman, but y’know. Put out a big vat of holy water and said, ‘jump in!’” Leonard frowns at him.

“Aziraphale…” he sighs, rubbing his face. “I, remember, we were swapped,” he gestures. Leonard nods. “It was an execution. A backroom with no witnesses. They put out a pillar of hellfire and told me, t-told him… ‘just die already.’” He sighs, rubbing his cheeks. “So… I just stepped in, and… didn’t,” he shrugs. “They panicked, kicked me down the escalator,” he sighs. “In the end… in the end, it turns out, we’re actually kind of immune,” he gives Leonard a sad smile. “It’s like a bad allergic reaction, but… some prick tried to kill me with holy water and,” he gestures at himself, “still here.”

“Well,” Leonard blinks hard, brain furiously working. He’s got some pretty strong ideas about God and her behavior with the creations she’d made solely, and entirely, to love her and do her bidding. This adds an interesting wrinkle to that, though. Can an omniscient being atone? Can they even experience guilt to begin with? Or was this Her setting up something new, some new test to see just how much one demon could take before shattering? Leonard winces as the bottlecap in his hand melts and slicks in his hand, sizzled by an unconscious buzz of _don’t you dare_. 

“Yeah, we don’t know what the hell is up with that,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his forehead and sipping his soda. He’s silent for a bit, slowly finishing his soda and considering Leonard’s carpet like it’s an incredibly interesting tapestry. Leonard wipes his hand off on another handkerchief and starts on the bubble gum drink next, cracking the cap off as Crowley looks up at him tiredly.

“You want to stop for tonight?” he asks softly, and Crowley shrugs a little. After a moment he nods.

“Sorry about this,” he sighs, and Leonard huffs a loud sigh at that.

“Anthony J Crowley,” he stands up and puts his fist on his hip, looking cross. Crowley looks up at him, a trembling smile on his lips. “You’re my friend, and you’re important to me. Don’t get all ‘oh sorry for taking up your time’ on me,” he wags a finger at the demon, who chuckles a little. “Besides, I owe you for saving the world,” Crowley finally grins at that, rolling his eyes and rubbing the tears away.

* * *

Aziraphale is not having a great time all by himself in London. It’s a good thing that they have the rings now, because without them he would probably go insane with worry. He’s broken Crowley’s trust, _again_, and the demon had been opening up and letting him in. They’d talked about before the fall, about his trauma with incubi, about so many things.

_And what have you done in return? _He’s cleaning the outside of the shop for the first time ever, stripping and repainting it as penance. He’s taken Crowley’s vulnerability, his trust, and he’s thrown it in his face. Again. If he has to watch Crowley look soft and sad, asking _was that a lie?_ again, he’s-he’s… well he doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but it’s going to be drastic.

He’d come clean about the antichrist a few weeks after their trials. They’d gotten rip-roaring drunk, and it was almost like old-times. Crowley had resolutely kept his glasses on, even in the back of the shop, but he hadn’t winced and shivered as he looked around the shop. It had taken him a couple of months before he’d even started taking the glasses off at all, finally letting Aziraphale back in, letting him see the exhaustion, the worry, the _love_. How had he missed all that love for so long? He might never forgive himself for it if it hadn’t been pure survival, forcing both of their emotional needs under a floorboard so that they could keep it all up, keep their respective charades up and running.

When Aziraphale, wincing and grimacing, admitted that he’d lied, Crowley had gone so still. Aziraphale thought he’d made time stop somehow, even though that wasn’t a power that he typically had. The demon stopped breathing, stopped blinking, just _stopped_.

“Why would you lie about that?” he’d asked softly, taking a small inhale just to speak the words.

“I-I…” he hadn’t had a good answer. Ineffability. Surety that when he knocked on God’s door, He would peel back the curtains, _finally_, and say, “Oh yes, that does seem like a rather good idea, Aziraphale. Tip top.”

The only person who had ever peeled back the curtains, let him in and welcomed him for who he really, _truly_ was… Well he was somewhere off in America right now. He keeps wanting to paw at the enchantments, but he’s limiting himself to doing it once every four hours. He doesn’t want to bother the demon too much.

Why was he so stupid? He’s crying again, and that’s not a good look when you’re a proper, upright business owner redoing their façade. He thunders back inside his stupid bookshop, and paces, enraged at himself. He’s only really understood Crowley’s self-destructive tendencies abstractly before this. He deals with his anxiety and frustration with distraction: reshelve the bookstore, delicately rebind a book that’s so old that it should be dust, sit here with your hands and mind focused so entirely on something else that everything else falls away. He had felt pity as he watched the demon drown himself in booze, or step in front of a cannon at first. _How sad, to feel that badly for yourself_. Then, it got worse, because he loved him. _No, you can’t, you’re so much better than that, how can I show you?_

Well, he gets it right now.

_I won’t hurt myself. On purpose, or otherwise_. It’s a contract with a demon. Those are important, you know.

He roots around in his drawers, finding the paperwork from Limbo. There are no suicide or crisis lines on the paperwork. He’d been designated as a low risk, and yes, he’s aware of ‘risk.’ He’s poured love into humans run so roughshod that they can’t stand being here anymore, and held children’s hands and faces in his palms, whispering, “You are good enough. You are enough. You’re _so _strong.” You don’t get to be the patron saint of queers, pretty much affianced to the patron saint of gender, and not know a thing or two about the knife’s edge.

Aziraphale has always been designated as a low risk. He’s good at thumbing the pain down, giving a bright smile, saying, “Oh, yes, everything’s just fine.” It’s hard for him to feel that his pain is bad enough to worry about. If people don’t notice, then surely, it’s not bad enough yet. If you hide it well enough, maybe even _you_ will forget about it, and not notice it anymore. Others have it so much worse, anyway. It’s not worth taking up the resources from people who actually need it, after all.

He dials the number, struggling to see through his blurred eyes.

“Limbo Headquarters, this is Murna. How may I direct your call?”

“Hospital, please,” he gulps wetly.

“Uhm, is this an emergency?” he hears her concern, and he wants to lash out. _Stop it, I’m not worth it, I’m not, I’m not_.

“Yes.”

* * *

Crowley sleeps through most of the night, and some of the day. He drives around the beaches for a little bit, waiting for sunset, and missing Aziraphale terribly. He buys himself a vanilla and chocolate popsicle, just what Aziraphale would buy if he was here, and watches the sun go down by himself on the beach. He can’t describe why he’s so homesick, but he figures it means he’s making some progress. He’s just been numb and angry before.

When he gets back to the retirement community, Leonard has a notepad out that he hasn’t seen in a long time, flipping through it with tiny reading glasses perched on his nose. He knows he keeps notes. He remembers things, and while he’s _good_, he’s not that good. No one’s that good. 

“Enjoying the beach, I see,” he smiles. Vampires are sensitive to the sun, even when it’s just the buzz of a suntan.

Crowley sniffs a little, sinking into the couch across from him. “I really miss him today,” he sighs, hugging himself and already stuffing his knees up in front of his chest.

Leonard takes off his glasses, eyes soft on the demon. He sets aside his notepad, knowing it can make Crowley nervous, and cracks open a grape soda that he’s pulled out of the bag Crowley brought.

“Tell me about it,” he offers as Crowley stares at his carpet. He’s still got his sunglasses on, but vampires can see pretty well in the dark and he can tell where he’s looking.

“Not much to tell,” he shrugs. “I just woke up, and… I keep thinking about him,” he sighs, idly toying with the ring on the chain.

“That’s from Aziraphale, isn’t it?” he points at the ring he’s toying with.

“Oh,” Crowley looks down at it. “Yeah. We…” he rubs his face. “We exchanged rings,” he smirks as Leonard’s face breaks out in an awed smile. “Yeah, I… they’re ostensibly for ‘protection,’” he chuckles. “I had another breakdown, and he wanted to be able to know I’m safe,” he sighs.

Leonard considers him, the demon’s eyes distant as his fingers keep toying with the ring. “Can you tell if he’s safe, then?” 

Crowley quirks his eyebrows at him, and he finally plucks the glasses off. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yes, thank Someone.” He looks relieved. “He… when he discorporated, in the bookshop… I couldn’t find him anywhere. And I can always find him. He’s always just… just there,” he gestures a little, as if he’s plucking a cord somewhere just a little in front of him. Aziraphale’s line is quiet, but he’s there. He’s been studiously not pushing, not pawing at the charm. It makes Crowley feel soft and tired, like he just wants to kiss the angel’s forehead and say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Whatever it would take to walk them back to before this, fix things, just put it back.

Crowley sighs, rubbing his face vigorously.

“I guess… I guess we should talk about breakdowns,” he sighs.

“Plural?” Leonard toys with the grape bottlecap, swirling it between his knuckles like a coin.

“I don’t do things in…” he sighs, and grumbles, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m just so tired all the time, Leo.”

Leonard inhales sharply at that, shifting in his seat. Crowley mentions the exhaustion, always, at least once. He doesn’t like talking about it, and it can easily trigger him into a downward spiral: _if I was dead, I wouldn’t be this tired, it would just be over, you can’t be tired if it just stops, why can’t it just stop?_ He’d pushed Crowley on it once, too hard, and caused a breakdown. Because of that, Leonard knows that he hasn’t had a restful night of sleep in millennia, plural, and he doesn’t want to think about the fact that he can sleep for decades and wake up more exhausted than when he went down somehow.

“How’ve you been sleeping, lately?” he asks softly, quietly pulling the notepad to him and clicking in his pen.

Crowley sighs deeply, closing his eyes. “I… slept at Aziraphale’s the other day,” he offers, with a small smile. “Before… before the fight. The _recent _fight,” he hisses. “I almost… felt rested. I… I haven’t felt like that since…” he exhales deeply, fingers dragging down his face. “I don’t know,” he rubs his face and looks away from him. “Since before I lost the lighthouse,” he offers softly.

Crowley’s had a lot of homes throughout the millennia. Sometime in ancient Macedonia, he’d excitedly sat with Aziraphale, doodling on spare scraps, exuberant with his own creativity. He drew up a beautiful lighthouse, filled with windows, and soft, oblique light. He did it correctly, the human way, pulling in materials from far off continents and helping the craftsmen lay down the foundations, slot in the walls and windows. Plants were everywhere, on every level, vines tumbling down the spiral staircase, flowers pushing through doorways and leaves pushing out of open windows. It was filled with love, with joy, but it was also sneaking and sly, a trick stair here, a room with an uncomfortably low ceiling there. He’d insisted, breathlessly, that it was a siren song, a beacon to pull in lonely sailors and other poor souls in need of succor, and he’d just tempt them devilishly in their time of need. Surely, he would cause some small heartache or annoyance, but inevitably, people who visited the lighthouse always came away a little lighter, a little more in love with life.

It was, perhaps, the last time he’d made a home, and not just kept a house.

Hastur had torched it. His face dull and incomprehensive, bold black eyes cold on Crowley as he husked, “It was the angel’s, right?” He’d stared at Crowley, who was so clearly bereft, knowing full well that it wasn’t. Crowley couldn’t run in and save anything, not right then, not without admitting it. He lost Aziraphale’s letters and countless plants that he had been nurturing since Eden. His devil’s snare is one of the few things left from the wreckage, a great-great-grandplant left all these millennia later. It’s probably why it’s so clingy, and won’t do a damn thing for anyone else except for him.

“Well, that’s some progress,” Leonard offers, and Crowley sighs. “What’re your sleeping habits like these days?” Crowley glowers at him. Leonard tries not to do the DSM or a battery of questions. He plays coy, _oh I’m just curious, how’re you doing?_

“No dec—”

“No, no decades long naps,” he grumbles, rubbing his face.

“Good,” Leonard nods. “Do you usually sleep through the night?”

“It’s…” Crowley sighs. “It’s variable,” he grumbles. “Been sleeping a lot with Aziraphale lately… uh, not… not like that,” he looks away, flushing in shame. Leonard raises his eyebrows, gesturing for him to continue. “I’ll usually just sleep through the night with him, not a couple of days,” he shrugs.

“Interesting,” Leonard tilts his head, scribbling something down. “How are you feeling right now?” He’s set aside his soda, now in full professional mode.

Crowley closes his eyes, biting back the _fine_ that wants to grit out of him. “Ashamed,” he sighs, rubbing his chest. Leonard nods, twiddling his pen between his fingers. “Upset. Tired,” he crosses his arms across his chest and looks away from him.

“Okay,” Leonard nods. “Tell me about what it was like that time you slept well. What were the factors, there?”

Crowley blinks down at his carpet, thinking. “We’d just come back… from Tadfield. F-from Adam, the antichrist,” he gestures. Leonard nods. “Aziraphale didn’t push me,” he scratches his jaw. “He’s… that’s a whole other thing,” he makes a choked noise, closing his eyes tight against the tears that prick there. Leonard makes a soft, soothing noise, eyes gentle on his face.

“What else?”

“I… hadn’t slept well the night before,” he rubs at his eyes, sniffling. “It was safe,” he sighs deeply, going languid with the memory. “It was so, so ssssafe.”

“What made it safe, Crowley?”

Crowley sighs, opening his eyes but leaving them unfocused, living in the memory. “Aziraphale just read, next to me. It was warm, and it smelled like him, and he was safe. He was there, with me, and…” he exhales softly.

Leonard nods, setting aside his notepad. “Alright,” he leans forward. “How are you feeling now?”

“Soft,” he whimpers a little, “vulnerable.”

“I’m going to count back to one, okay?” he gently taps his fingers together, breathing in slow, deep breaths and Crowley unconsciously follows along with him. “When I get to one, we’ll be right here, in my living room, and we’ll do a little inventory, okay?” he gently pats Crowley’s knee. Crowley closes his eyes, nodding a little.

He softly counts back, ticking his fingers down as he does so and Crowley settles back slowly with each step back. They’ve done this before, thankfully, so Crowley’s able to come back into himself, a humanoid shaped demon-thing tucked into itself across from an ancient vampire.

“It’s progress,” Leonard nods at him. “I’m proud of you,” he smiles and Crowley only rolls his eyes a little. “So, it appears that your relationship has progressed? If you’re exchanging rings and sleeping, and _just_ sleeping, together,” he drums his fingers on his knee, making note of the shivering that’s broken out in the demon. “How do you feel about that?”

Crowley rubs his forehead, forcing back tears with some difficulty. “It’s good,” he offers softly.

“Is it?” Leonard asks reasonably. Crowley glares up at him from where he’s massaging his brows.

When Crowley doesn’t elaborate, Leonard sighs a little. _Okay, not today then_.

“Tell me about your breakdowns. Plural,” he plucks up his soda, allowing Crowley his control and space.

“Uhm,” Crowley takes a deep breath, tucking away shivers with a few more cool, controlled breaths. “After the apocalypse, we uh… Aziraphale stayed around. We’d been seeing each other every day for eleven years prior to this, so, I guess we kind of got used to it.” He sighs, rubbing his cheeks and brows and looking tired. “I… it was a lot,” he grumbles. “I mean, it wasn’t literally,” he fusses with a hole in the knee of his jeans for a moment. “He just wanted to go out to lunch or dinner like, every other day or so. Nothing too bad.”

“But it was hard for you,” Leonard considers him.

Crowley looks up at him bleakly. “I… was still processing the fire. And… the trials. And just, everything else,” he rubs his face. “I just wanted to go to sleep for a month, turn off,” he whines, voice going tight. “But he wouldn’t let me, he’d call, and he’d wheedle, and I couldn’t say no. I… didn’t want to worry him.”

Leonard nods. “And it got to be too much at some point?”

Crowley scoffs a little. “Yeah, yeah it did,” he sighs. “Sometime in November, I… I should’ve said no, I was really bad. One of those days where I could just… I could feel _everything_, and even with glasses and everything else, it was just all getting under my skin,” he rubs his elbows, shivering a little. Leonard nods. “Aziraphale noticed, and he… leaned in a little,” he rubs his nose, face going bleak again. “I thought he was going to kill me,” he chokes out a laugh. “It’s stupid, but I was so sure, he…” he isn’t able to school back the tears this time, and he makes a frustrated noise.

Leonard hands him the handkerchief again, nodding for him to continue.

“He… he was worried I was going to kill myself,” he says, very softly, staring with blurred eyes at Leonard’s knees. Leonard’s professional enough that he manages not to show the keen interest that generates.

“Oh?” he offers, softly. “Why would he think that?”

Crowley looks up at him with a wet, furrowed frown. “He… he trapped me in his shop,” he sighs, “because he was scared of that.”

Leonard blinks slowly, sitting very still. “I… I don’t know,” Crowley sighs. “It was bad,” he rubs his cheek, swallowing thickly. “I don’t… I can’t say what I might’ve done,” he offers softly.

“Okay,” Leonard breathes. _Christ_. “How are you feeling right now?”

Crowley laughs softly, “Tired, mostly.”

“Give me a number,” he ticks his pen in his hand, considering the demon with soft eyes. He’d started introducing numbers to rate ‘arousal,’ or level of upset, after he’d slowly walked Crowley through the aftermath of _You go to fast for me_. There’d been a lot of high numbers and terrified panting in that period.

Crowley sniffs, considering. “Twenty-five,” he shrugs.

“Okay,” Leonard puffs out another long breath. “What happened after he trapped you? How did you feel?”

“It was… it was a demon’s trap, y’know. But he… he modified it so that it…” he rubs his throat, swallowing thickly. “When I tried to hurt myself on it, all I felt was his… love.”

Leonard tilts his head, tapping his pen on his lips. _Well, well_. “You two hadn’t really discussed your feelings prior to that, right?”

Crowley gives him a sardonic look, chuckling. “Oh, yes, of course. We’d hashed it all out over tea and crumpets the morning prior,” he sneers.

Leonard huffs at him, shaking his head.

“No, we hadn’t,” he sighed. “I was… I was getting pretty strung up about it. It’s hard… it _was_ hard, being around him, and not knowing if…” he releases a shaky breath, looking wretched.

“Not knowing if he loved you back,” Leonard offers softly, eyes downcast, as the silence stretches and Crowley sniffles, lips contorting as he tries to complete the sentence.

“Yeah…” he sighs. He takes a few deep breaths, rubbing his brow.

“That must have been harrowing, Crowley,” Leonard says softly. “Denying you for thousands of years, and then locking you in a demon’s trap that says, ‘I love you.’”

Crowley sniffs a little. “He… he said it too. I, I didn’t believe him,” he rubs his nose, and shivers a little. “I thought, ‘Oh, he’s just soothing. Just… jus’ like ‘it’ll all be alright,’” he gulps thickly.

Crowley takes a deep breath, rubbing his elbows. “How are you feeling?” Leonard looks up at him, posture relaxed.

“Weak,” Crowley sighs, rubbing at his cheek. Leonard nods.

“Shall we take a break?” he offers.

Crowley shrugs and shakes his head no. “Uhm, it’s… he comforted me through it,” he sighs. “Got me back in my own skin again,” he rubs at his hair, eyes tired. “I uh, I slept for a bit after that. He… he kept waking me up, y’know,” he gestures a little. “I… I made him sick,” his voice goes taut, and he grimaces, hugging back a few hard shudders.

“How did you make Aziraphale sick?” Leonard quirks his brow at the demon, ticking his pen against his lips.

Crowley grumbles a little, wiggling his shoulders in displeasure. _Let me blame myself, please_. “When I was sleeping, he called me, and I wasn’t… I answered the phone but I was just asleep, not really there,” he gestures a little. Leonard nods, brows quirking in concern. “He uh, he got spooked and jumped into my flat apparently,” Crowley exhales deeply. “I, oh, I guess that’s something else,” he grumbles.

“Hm?” Leonard sips at his grape soda, considering Crowley as he rocks his head in his hands, looking grumpy.

“Before the apocalypse, Hastur and Ligur paid me a visit,” he sighs. “They made it all the way in, and I… I killed Ligur with holy water. With _that_ holy water,” he gestures. “I ran away from Hastur, and he… ugh,” he sinks his head back into his hands. _Why is it so raw still? I don’t want to talk about this_.

“Give me a number,” Leonard breaks in, softly touching his shoulder.

“Forty,” Crowley rubs his face, looking exhausted as he meets Leonard’s eyes. “I’m just tired,” he sighs.

“We should take a break,” Leonard nods. “You hungry?” Crowley shrugs a little, ineffectually.

“I could eat,” he offers, as Leonard keeps watching him. “I’m not hungry, but, eh,” he shrugs.

“Not even for eggs in a basket?” Leonard quirks his mouth endearingly.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Crowley chuckles, cracking his neck and pushing himself up from the couch.

* * *

Leonard makes Crowley luxuriate through lunch, or what amounts to lunch for a vampire and a demon at midnight. They play a little gin rummy, and talk about nothing at all for a bit, pull back and just be a person again, not a broken wreck.

Leonard is sipping at a watermelon fizzy when Crowley gets up from the bar stool, stretches theatrically, and walks over to the couch to very purposefully sit in his usual therapy spot. Leonard chuckles a little, but walks over to join him. 

He pulls up his notepad, looking a little rueful. “I should’ve asked you this earlier,” he sighs, rubbing his nose with his thumb. “You’ll hate it either way,” he smirks a little.

Crowley bites his lip, and shrugs, gesturing for him to get on with it.

“Do you think about killing yourself?”

Crowley sighs deeply, looking away from him with shame clear in his face. Leonard watches as he fiddles with the threads in his couch, avoiding his eyes. “Crowley?”

“Just… just the exhaustion thing,” he grumbles, curling his arms around his chest again.

Leonard nods a little, scribbling something down. “Do you think about hurting yourself?”

Crowley laughs dryly at that, which is a common response from him. “’Course,” he grumbles with a dark smirk. “I promised, I-I made a contract with ‘ziraphale,” he gestures a little. “I won’t hurt myself on purpose, or otherwise,” he repeats, finally meeting Leonard’s eyes. Leonard nods, eyebrows quirked in surprise.

“That’s very good, Crowley,” he nods.

“Yeah, are you proud of me?” he growls darkly, sulking into the couch.

“I think it’s a good thing,” he nods. “What did Aziraphale think of it?”

“He…” Crowley sighs deeply and rubs his face. “I’ve been hurting myself a lot lately, I guess,” he growls, biting around the tears. “So, he knows.”

Leonard idly toys with the plastic of the label on his drink. “How are you feeling?”

“Nettled,” Crowley spits, sneering, and Leonard laughs.

“I’ve just got to check in,” he shrugs, palms to the sky. “’s my job!”

Crowley rolls his eyes, and exhales deeply. “I know,” he sighs. “I know, I know,” he rubs at his face.

“Where do you want to start?” Leonard starts as the label he’s poking at rips, not pulling at the adhesive anymore.

“Uhm,” Crowley sighs. “I was talking about…” he drums his fingers on his lips, thinking. “Oh, right. After… well, during the apocalypse. I ran away from Hastur, got him stuck on my answering machine for a bit,” he gestures, and Leonard looks startled at that. “Yeah, being a demon’s wild,” he chuckles.

“Aziraphale…” he sighs deeply. “I ran away, to the shop, and he was… gone. The shop was on fire, and he was just… gone,” he sighs deeply. “So, world’s gonna end in hours, minutes. My… Aziraphale’s gone, forever I’m figuring, so I just… I just go fuck off in a pub and drink myself silly,” he waves a little, looking distantly sad, not fully integrating with the moment.

“Then, he comes back,” he shrugs a little, and Leonard quirks his head in interest. “He doesn’t have a body, he’s just a… an angel, soul thing,” he gestures poorly. “He tells me to go to Tadfield airport, on the double, so… so I do.” He itches his shoulder unconsciously.

“On the way there, Hastur shows up. Oh, and, uh, the M25, remember that?” he smiles genuinely, and Leonard nods a little. “As Adam came into his power, it went up like tinder. Entire thing, just a wall of fire.” Leonard’s face goes slack with shock.

“Really?” Leonard squints at him. “That’s… that’s like, it goes all around London, right?” It’s been a very long time since he’s been to the UK. He’d found it a little too drizzly for his tastes.

“Yeah,” Crowley nods. “So… Hastur pops into my _fucking car_, and he rips off my sunglasses and he insults me and he’s,” he shudders, hands clenching into fists. “Oooh, Hastur,” he growls, palming his hair as he takes a few quick breaths to attempt to sooth himself.

Leonard tilts his head a little, considering the demon quivering with anger. “Give me a number.”

“Gneh,” Crowley grumbles, forcing his arms around his ribcage again. “F-fifty,” he growls. “It’ll go down soon, just let me get through this,” he shivers.

“Take a deep breath Crowley,” Leonard leans forward. “In through your nose, yes, good,” he nods, gesturing outward to suggest a long exhale.

“How about now?” Leonard asks softly.

Crowley takes another deep breath. “Forty,” he sighs.

“Stop if it spikes again. But go on,” he gestures.

“Uhm,” Crowley looks away from him, still shivering a little. “I had to get to Tadfield,” he starts stiffly. “To get to Tadfield, I had to go through… through a wall of fire,” he sniffs a little, slowly calming himself down.

“Okay,” Leonard nods. “How was that?”

“Bad,” Crowley laughs. “Not great, really. Wouldn’t recommend it,” he smirks, jittering a little still. “I… I discorporated Hastur with it, though,” he jeers, grinning like a naughty child.

“Well,” Leonard chuckles. “Every cloud has it’s silver lining.”

“It… it destroyed the Bentley,” he sighs, and Leonard looks genuinely distraught at that.

“No,” he starts looking towards the door, ready to jump up and check on the vehicle that Crowley drove up in.

“It… Adam… reset things, I guess,” he gestures. “The Bentley and the shop are fine,” he gives Leonard a sober look. “They’re more fucking magical than they have any right to be, but they’re fine.”

Leonard scoffs at that.

“Uh…” Crowley palms his hair again. He’s starting to miss having it long again. “The point of that was…” he peers searchingly into the middle distance, considering Leonard’s record collection behind his easy chair. Leonard jiggles his knee a little, considering his notes as Crowley thinks.

“Aziraphale got sick somehow,” he offers, after a while.

“Oh,” Crowley nods. “Yeah, after, after that _debacle_,” he grumbles, rubbing his cheeks. “I upped the protections a little. Made it so, if you can get past all the stuff that misdirects you, well, you get infected basically. It’s nasty,” he scowls a little. “Basically, if you come in and you’re looking for me, you’re already going to be feeling up the protections on the place, and when you do, you’ll get a little… bug. It’ll just hitch a ride, you won’t even notice it,” he gestures. “Then… you’ll come back home, and you’ll get something like the bubonic plague, but on steroids.” Leonard’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “I should’ve made it infectious, but it’s already fucking horrible, that’d just be…” he shakes his head.

“That seems like a pretty intense spell,” Leonard offers shakily. It’s a little horrifying sometimes to realize just how powerful Crowley and Aziraphale actually are.

“Yeah,” Crowley nods. “It’s monstrous,” he grins loosely at him, “Seems appropriate, no?” Leonard sighs a little at that, not taking the bait.

“Anyway, it’s just so that, if I get caught, I can run off and it’ll slow down whoever’s after me. It’s fine. It’s better than what I had before,” he waves. “Aziraphale… when he popped into my flat, he saw the protections, and wanted to add something more,” he sighs. “He’s more direct with his spellwork, sigils that very clearly state ‘If you step over the threshold, you will die. And it will hurt.’”

“So, he got suckered in by your…” Leonard waves a little.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “It… it didn’t hit him that hard, because he wasn’t trying to kill me. He just kind of got a light flu. But you know how he is when he’s sick,” he relaxes a little, crossing his legs and rocking a little with his arms around his chest.

“I actually don’t,” Leonard raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh,” Crowley starts. “Oh, well. He hasn’t gotten sick in ages. I, you know, we get magical flus sometimes,” he rolls his wrist and Leonard nods. “Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, so you have to coddle him and keep him busy while he’s all whiny and sniffly. He always ends up sparking off magic without meaning to, and I have to clean up whatever he ends up pulling out of thin air,” he sighs deeply. “He likes it when I read to him, though. So, I read to him for… like two days straight,” Crowley rubs his face, looking tired.

“Literally?” Leonard asks, ticking his pen between his fingers.

“Yeah, I nearly lost my voice. I didn’t sleep or anything,” Crowley hugs himself a little.

“Well,” Leonard sighs a little.

“Yeah, I know it was dumb,” Crowley grumbles. “Aziraphale made me sleep once he noticed,” he grumpily rubs his cheek, still rocking a little back and forth.

Leonard nods. “So, he got better?”

“Yeah, I slept, and he got better,” he grumbles, tensing again. He grunts and looks away blurrily as his mind skips around through the next bits, glomming onto the fight, and the incubus again. “I remembered something,” he grits in a sing-song voice, sneering at Leonard with tears in his eyes.

“Okay,” Leonard sips at his soda, frowning.

“So…” Crowley sighs, rubbing the tears out of his eyes with a hand. “So, uhm, I…” he sighs deeply. “You know what incubi and succubae are, right?”

Leonard quirks a brow at him, drawing his notepad close, “Of course.”

“In the beginning, they thought angels and demons were immune to them,” Crowley sighs. “We’re not,” his voice goes tight at that, and he stares pointedly at the floor.

“Give me a number,” Leonard ticks his pen against his leg.

Crowley takes a while to respond, trying to classify the leaden dread about talking about it again, mixed with the strange absence of emotion as he thinks about it this time. “Thirty-five,” he offers finally.

“So… why is it bad that you’re not immune to incubi?” Leonard squints at him.

The look that Crowley gives him at that makes Leonard’s chest seize. “Ever heard of the Nephilim?” Crowley offers softly, toying with his sleeve and feeling incredibly sluggish.

Leonard twiddles his pen anxiously. “But incubi aren’t human. It should be fine,” he frowns.

Crowley looks up at his ceiling, eyes oddly glassy. “We’re not supposed to want, like that,” he sighs. “It’s…” he pushes his face into his hands, sighing. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he grumbles.

Leonard writes something down, letting Crowley think. “We were made to love Her,” he states quietly. “If you look at an incubus, and the one thing you desire most in the world is not Her?” Crowley’s voice shakes a little, but he just looks tired and bleak, staring at the carpet.

“I think I get it,” Leonard nods. “How’re we doing now?”

Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “It’s weird,” he rubs his shoulders. “I’m… I just feel… nothing.”

Leonard squints at him. “I suppose it’s hard to put a number to nothing,” he agrees, pulling out another soda from the six-pack he’s settled near his feet today. “So, when you saw an incubus, what happened?”

Crowley looks up at him, and a wave of nausea hits him. “Oof,” he rubs his mouth, wincing.

“Number?”

“Nah, I just got really nauseous,” Crowley winces. “Uh… twenty-five, I don’t know.”

Leonard frowns at him. Crowley hangs his head, grumbling. “Let’s just get this over with,” he grits. “Aziraphale gave me the year, I’d forgotten it,” he gestures sharply. “It’s 1050, there’s a beautiful guest star in the sky, and I walk into a shitty bar in India and I see an Aziraphale-shaped incubus on the stool.” Leonard inhales a little sharply at that. “I go up, I say, ‘What are you doing here?’ and I get clobbered and dragged down to Hell. They want to know what I see, _who_ I see,” he gulps thickly, bile rising now.

“Here,” Leonard gets up and fusses with something on the cabinet full of records behind him. “Put this on,” he proffers a velcro wristband with two hard nubs on it.

Crowley takes it, looking confused and sick, so Leonard gently velcro’s it on his wrist, finding the pressure point. “Oh,” Crowley starts as the nausea abates a little. “Clever,” he twists his wrist back and forth.

“Hmph,” Leonard smirks, and plunks back into his chair. “Check in,” he barks, as he resettles his notepad on his lap.

“Forty,” Crowley grimaces.

“You know the drill,” Leonard gestures for him to continue.

“Uhm,” he rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “Normal Hell stuff,” he shrugs, lip curling a little. “Eventually they pull the incubus in again, and he clocks me, and uh, I tell ‘em ‘fair-haired,’” he quirks his brow at Leonard who starts a little, some other pieces fitting together. “In Enochian, so of course, Lucifer had to come by and be like, ‘_you didn’t tell me you knew Enochian!_’” he blusters, hands on hips as he makes Satan sound like very stern and ornery.

“Enochian’s the angelic language?” Leonard frowns, trying to remember.

“Yeah,” Crowley rubs his cheek idly. “We were supposed to have forgotten it, and everything else, with the…” he gestures towards a plummet.

“Ah,” Leonard nods.

“So, uhm… oh, and I guess. I guess the incubus kissed me,” he actually retches at that, shuddering and looking incredibly surprised at this turn of events.

“Crowley,” Leonard’s suddenly at his shoulder, and he’s apparently lost a little time because Leonard looks very concerned and the scenery has changed a little, a vomit bucket near his knees, and a half-drunk bottle of water in Leonard’s hands, held towards him. “There we are,” Leonard sighs and smiles a little, glad that Crowley’s coming around. He settles on the couch next to him, rubbing his back as the demon shudders, his body sobbing as his mind keeps relaying emotional radio silence.

“I don’t feel anything,” he manages, whining after another round of wracking sobs. It hurts, but in a way, it’s soothing to let himself feel the tears and the congestion, as if they belong to someone else.

“You’re blocking it,” Leonard offers softly. “You’ve been blocking it out for a long time,” he brings the sodden handkerchief up to gently clean his face. “You don’t have to block it anymore, Crowley. You’re safe.”


	12. Chapter 12

“So, Aziraphale, what brings you here today?”

Aziraphale jolts back from his rampant daydreams, mind racing as he goes over all the pamphlets and posters in the room advertising _choosing life_, and listing various hotlines. It makes his throat tight, and he inevitably thinks about Crowley looking too broken to speak so many centuries ago.

“Uhm,” he clears his throat, and considers the soul in front of him. They don’t have a pronoun tag on their chest, just a sticker that says Lilo. “Uhm, may I ask what pronouns you prefer?”

Lilo smiles at that, and shrugs a little. “Any and all?”

Aziraphale blinks hard, mind racing to trying to figure out conjugations. “H-how would… the possessive for that work? That’s all’s paper? Or, no, I suppose, that’s all of theirs…?”

“No, no,” Lilo breaks in at that point. “Most people just use she/her or they/them,” she offers.

“Ah,” he nods quickly, and his eyes dart around the small office again.

“What brings you here today?” Lilo repeats, eyes soft behind her large glasses.

“Oh, uh,” Aziraphale starts again. “Well, I… I broke the trust of my friend,” he offers, lips quivering a little. “And, uhm, he left,” he shrugs a little, tears blurring his eyes again. “I’m… I, he promised me, he wouldn’t hurt himself, but uh…” he takes a rough inhale, and has to close his eyes for a moment, attempting to calm himself. “I, I have this,” he brandishes the ring on his left hand, “so I can tell if he’s actually…” He has to pause for another moment, gulping, “Actually… _alive_,” his voice warbles terribly. “But, uhm, I’m still, I don’t want to check on him all the time.”

Lilo taps her fingers on her leg, digesting this information and mentally mapping out how she’s going to handle this.

She leans forward after a moment, offering, “Do you think he’s going to hurt himself?”

Aziraphale shakes his head quickly, two sharp jerks, “No, no, he swore he wouldn’t. But uhm, well, he might… he could be kidnapped by Hell, or, or, Heaven? Or some human might…” He hisses the tears off after a moment, using his handkerchief to dab at his eyes. “And, I mean, he might… he may not _mean_ to, but well, he may…” his lips contort through a grimace a few times as he finds himself unable to complete that sentence.

“So, that charm lets you know he’s alive and well?” Lilo asks, squinting at his ring. Aziraphale nods, twisting it on his finger but not reaching out for the charms behind it. “Why can’t you check on it now?”

“Well, he’s, uhm, he’s sensitive,” Aziraphale waves a little, sniffing. “I’m, uh, I’m only going to check on him every four hours,” he gestures, fortifying, “so I won’t bother him too much.”

“When did you check it last?”

Aziraphale pulls out his pocket watch and squints at it, counting the time back in his mind. “Two hours and thirty-nine, ah, forty minutes,” he smiles up at her. She blinks a little hard at that.

“Okay,” she nods. “I think that sounds like a fair limitation. So, you’re still worried that he’s going to hurt himself, even though he said he wouldn’t?”

Aziraphale’s eyes dart towards hers and away a few times until he shrugs ineffectually.

“Isn’t that a sort of breach of trust?” she presses, gently, and Aziraphale stills. Lilo has to look away quickly from steely angelic rage.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” Aziraphale grits icily.

“I-nevermind,” Lilo smiles wanly at him. “Uhm, when you said you broke your friend’s trust, what did you mean?”

Aziraphale rolls his shoulders, taking a second to pack his rage away. “Uhm, well,” he swallows purposefully and readjusts his tie. “He was attacked, recently, and uh…” he sniffs, and his eyes dart around again as he tries to put words to it. “I was looking into the person who attacked him,” he offers after a moment, and Lilo raises an eyebrow in confusion.

“That seems like a bit of an overreaction. Was the attacker a mutual friend of yours?”

“O-oh, no, it’s, it’s not like that,” Aziraphale waves a hand. “Crowley—uh,” he starts, hand jittering to his lips as he accidentally identifies his friend. Lilo gives him a gentle smile, encouraging him. “M-my friend, uhm, he may know the… uhm, the person who ordered the attack,” he swallows thickly, toying with his collar.

Lilo squints, considering him. “I still don’t see why this was a ‘breach of trust.’ It’s natural to want to help and protect our friends.”

Aziraphale chews the inside of his cheek, leg bobbing rhythmically as his mind races away, trying to find the right wording. _I was actually setting up a trap to kill his attacker, and he knew it, and if I tell you that, well, Limbo won’t be particularly happy with me_.

“I… I may have,” his voice quivers, and he exhales deeply, shaking himself. “He stumbled on my notes, uh, of-of-I was going to retaliate,” he grumbles, determinedly not looking at her.

Lilo nods at that, comprehension dawning. “So, he was upset that you were setting up to attack a friend of his?”

Aziraphale huffs. _Oh, this is not going the way I’d hoped at all_.

“I doubt that Crowley would call this demon a friend of his,” he crosses his arms, and holds her gaze steadily.

“Ah,” Lilo’s mouth twists around a little. “So,” she sighs, trying to find her way through Aziraphale’s obfuscations. “So, why didn’t you tell him in the first place? What did you think he would do, if you told him you were going to retaliate?”

“Uhm,” Aziraphale’s stomach sinks and his eyes go a bit distant. “I, uh, I suppose… he might’ve…” he stalls, and gulps a little. “He wouldn’t have taken it seriously,” he starts up again quickly, giving her a smile twisted by anxiety. “He’d say he wasn’t worth the trouble,” he sniffs, waving his hand, forced to dab at his cheeks again.

Lilo considers him, frowning a little, “Did he take it seriously when he found your notes?”

Aziraphale coughs a little. “Uh, uh, yes,” he nods, and loudly blows his nose. “Sorry,” he adds sheepishly, apologizing for the noise. She waves off his concern.

Lilo spends another twentyish minutes poking and prodding gently, eventually settling on giving him advice on how one cannot serve from an empty bowl, one cannot care for others if they do not care for themselves first. Aziraphale has been worrying over Crowley’s well-being for millennia at this point, and it’s reached a bit of a fever pitch with the apocalypse and everything since. She walks him through a number of self-soothing routines, and ends up requesting he call to check in with her once a day. She’d prefer texting, but Aziraphale stiffly vetoes that.

He leaves Limbo with a mound of pamphlets, and a tense feeling that he’s just made things worse somehow. As he returns to the shop, he finds two new postcards from Limbo demanding that he make appointments and check-in. He grumbles as he remembers Crowley witheringly griping about Limbo and their bloody appointment reminders.

* * *

Crowley’s sitting in the shallow end of Leonard’s pool watching the vampire languidly do the backstroke. His hair has grown out to his shoulders somewhere in the last day as he’s been desperately in need of the comfort, and there’s something soothing about the dense curls.

“Does your hair grow naturally, then?” Leonard puffs, surfacing after a quick dive and spitting out water.

“What do you mean?” Crowley sniffs, hunched a little with his arms around his knees and looking tired. He’s spent a lot of time in Leonard’s pools over the years. He always has one, dimly lit and large enough to do marathon laps in. It’s part of his hearth magic probably, as his home is quite a bit larger and differently shaped on the inside than the outside. The brown tile of this pool looks pretty similar to the one he had several centuries prior, so it’s pretty definitely magical somehow.

“Like, does it grow slowly over time? Or do you have to concentrate on it to make it grow at all? It’s the corporation thing, right?”

Crowley shrugs a little, back and forth. “Yeah,” he offers. “Like humans do, but, eh. I made this happen, but usually it just grows out naturally over time,” he gestures at his curls. Leonard nods, hefting himself out of the pool. “It can grow out suddenly if I do something really big miracle-wise, but that hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“If I, uh,” Leonard shrugs a little, toweling himself off. “Vampires, if they feed really heavily, they’ll do the same,” he huffs as he scrubs the towel over his face. Crowley weakly steps out of the water and up the steps, picking up a neatly folded towel off of a bench and slowly drying himself off.

“How’re you feeling?” Leonard wiggles back into a Hawaiian shirt with woodies and surfboards printed on it.

Crowley shrugs a little, sniffing. “Tired.” He checks his watch as he feels Aziraphale delicately ping the charms. He’s started to realize that he’s doing it every four hours, and it kind of makes him smile, but it also just makes him incredibly sad. “I just want this to be over with so I can go home,” he sluggishly turns his eyes back to Leonard who exhales deeply.

“You know you can leave whenever you want,” he gestures, corralling the demon out of the pool room. He could hold Crowley here, if he really wanted to, protection and home are his specialties after all. He’s rather glad that he hasn’t been forced to do so, though.

Crowley grumbles but muscles a purple sweater on and miracles the wet out of the tights he’s wearing.

“The ball is in your court Crowley,” Leonard gestures at the living room, letting Crowley choose whether he wants to settle on the couch or at the counter. “It’s always your choice.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, and flops onto the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket again. He just wants to wrap himself up in a million layers and not have to deal with existing anymore, maybe just be a knickknack sitting on Aziraphale’s shelves and nothing more. Leonard sinks into his recliner, pulling out one of the minty sodas and cracking it open.

“Rosier sent an angel to kill me,” Crowley rubs his nose.

“Rosier? As in, the one that Lucifer’s always trying to matchmake you with?” Leonard paws at his notebook, squinting at old notes.

Crowley nods glumly. “Don’t know why,” he shrugs.

“Could be something with the apocalypse, I suppose,” Leonard shrugs, stuffing his reading glasses on a little haphazardly.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale put up a bunch of devil’s traps, planning to summon ‘er. He put one up on the wall with the door, which is why it caught me,” Crowley gestures at a box with his hands.

“Ah,” Leonard nods, frowning a little.

“He didn’t tell me. He was just,” he grumbles, stuffing his chin in his palm, “doing that righteous justice thing he does.”

“Ohh,” Leonard nods, understanding finally.

“Oh, and he killed a hellhound and freaked about it,” Crowley rubs his face, looking confused. Leonard blinks a little hard at that.

“He’s a bit… protective, at times,” Leonard nods. “So, what do you think he’ll do with Rosier when he summons her?” Crowley scoffs at that.

“I think I convinced him to wait,” he rubs his nose. “Probably try to kill her or something, I don’t know.”

“Why wait?”

“Well… we should figure out what she’s doing and why,” Crowley gestures. “Just summoning her up in a devil’s trap willy-nilly isn’t going to do anyone any favors if we don’t know what’s going on. It might not even be her, y’know?”

Leonard gives him a hard look at that. “What?” Crowley frowns.

Leonard clucks his tongue, and shuffles through his papers. “Rosier has tried to force herself on you, right?” Crowley looks away, flushed with shame. “What if she’s seen what you did with the apocalypse, and she’s trying to reign you in again? Like, I know, there’s plenty of people it _could_ be, but…” he sighs, rubbing his face. “How do you know it’s Rosier? Aziraphale?”

Crowley nods, rubbing his chest with his knuckles and looking a little sick.

“Do you think she’ll try again?” Crowley’s stomach does a series of complicated flip-flops at that, and he’s glad that he’s still wearing the anti-nausea band. Leonard had meant it in the sense of _do you think she’ll attempt to attack you again?_ But Crowley sees flashes of shimmering ringlets before a cotton-candy mouth forces him over a moldering wine cask.

“Y-yeah,” he offers softly. Rosier was incredibly driven, as she had to be given that she was a meager human soul to start with and had clamored her way up to prince in a matter of centuries. She put a lot of effort into hiding the human origin, and had tried unsuccessfully to take a few dead demon’s names through the ages.

“I suppose you and Aziraphale should make a plan then,” Leonard taps his fingers along the edge of his armrest.

“I’ve already got protections up,” Crowley shrugs weakly. “And, I mean,” he gestures at the ring that he’s wearing on his right ring finger again.

“Will that be enough?”

Crowley sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Leonard drums his fingers on his notepad, thinking. “Maybe it’s time for you to go back home, then.” Crowley squints up at him from under his hair. “We’ve made some progress, but you need some time to get back to…” he waves his hand, “equilibrium? We can sit here and dig through stuff for ages, but you need a break, Crowley.”

Crowley sighs, rubbing a hand through his curls. “I’ve got a shop, now,” he states, apropos of nothing.

“Oh?” Leonard plucks his glasses off his nose and considers him.

“It’s going to be a nursery, I guess. Plants,” he gestures. “It’s… it’s really nice,” he gulps thickly at the bubbles of love and hope and the fear of loss that rock through him at that.

“What brought that on?”

“Oh, uh… the holy water. I was selling plants when I got attacked in a park,” he pulls his knees down to the carpet and tries, and fails, to keep himself from hugging himself. His arms remain stubbornly wrapped around his torso.

“Ah,” Leonard nods.

“It’s right next to Aziraphale’s shop,” he offers a shy smile and Leonard chuckles. “Yeah, I know. I looked around, but the perfect spot ended up being there, so,” he shrugs.

“I…” Crowley grumbles, rubbing his arms. “We should talk about sex, I guess,” he looks guiltily up at him from beneath his curtain of hair, and Leonard sighs a little.

“Just because I don’t partake doesn’t mean I can’t talk about sex Crowley,” he gestures with his glasses plucked up in hand again.

Crowley takes a deep breath, sighing. “I should’ve guessed, really. But I thought Aziraphale would be… slower,” he sniffs, rubbing his nose. “I think if I hadn’t had a panic attack with the… incubus thing, he would’ve been ready to hop into bed after my six-day nap.” Leonard nods, looking down as he writes. “He got kinked out with the holy water, and made us go get tested in Limbo. We had to do this stupid ‘core sample’ thing and get stuck in true form, pretty horrible,” he grumbles, rubbing hair out of his face. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard others talk about the core samples. They’re nasty,” Leonard shakes his head, and Crowley shrugs a little.

“I… at first I thought he wasn’t trying, or, uh, making the effort? And, like, I was just coming at him all sexual and there he was all… not,” he gestures, grimacing a little. “I was so, _so_ wrong, he’s… he’s always kind of looked me up, and like, I mean, it’s… it’s flattering, I guess, but _hoof_, I did not realize the lust he was bundling down,” he shakes his head, a little bewildered.

Leonard frowns at him, concerned. “Will you tell him no, when you need to?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, we, yeah,” he nods, rubbing his face. “Aziraphale made us pick out a safe word, and uh, yeah,” he waves it off.

“But he pushes you, you said,” Leonard ticks his pen back and forth between his fingers.

“Uhh… he just…” he sighs deeply. “I’m worried it’s going to be like Iacopo all over again,” he says quietly, tucking himself into a ball, hidden behind hair.

Leonard exhales, knee jiggling just a little as he thinks. “I think you’re going to have communicate, Crowley. Can you maybe ask him to… to be clear what he wants, and accept when you say ‘no, maybe not right now?’”

Crowley looks up at him bleakly from under his hair. “You realize how much I’ve wanted this? _For millennia_, Leo. How can I say no? What if he—” he makes a tight noise of frustration. “What if he doesn’t want it tomorrow?”

Leonard sighs deeply, looking away from the desperate creature on his couch. “Has he respected your requests, so far?” Crowley nods vigorously, swallowing as his lips twitch around in a series of scowls and frowns. “Why don’t you try asking him, directly? Say, ‘I want this, Aziraphale. I’ve wanted this for so long, but I’m scared, and I don’t want to lose you.’ I think he’ll wait for you, Crowley. I really do.”

Crowley stares pointedly at the carpet for a while before nodding, almost imperceptibly.

“Do you want to practice saying it?” Leonard prods gently. Crowley stares at the carpet for a very long time before nodding again very slightly.

* * *

Crowley takes an actual airplane home, whisking the Bentley across the Atlantic with a snap, but too tired to deal with hefting himself _and_ the car back with any magic. He trembles into his flat, still feeling frail and terribly nauseous. Leonard had gently kept feeding him comfort foods, various things with eggs and breads, so he _has_ been eating, but he’s also been throwing up a lot. Talking about the incubus, about all of the gritty details of that encounter that he’d spent so _damn_ long attempting to dissolve and ignore has left him feeling like his innards have been scooped out by a melon baller.

He’s been feeling a little ambivalent about the flat for a while, and coming home to its hard light and sharp edges makes his chest tight and he has to pin down a panic attack, hiding in his now empty plant room. _I want to go home_, a thin, childish voice cries in his head, and the problem is that he doesn’t have one. He hasn’t, in so, so, _so_ bloody long that it hurts, and it hurts like how it does when he thinks of not _ever_ waking up rested. Leonard would probably have something to say about that, but well, he’s supposed to spend a week back in London and see how he feels, send off a note with his status once the week’s over and then they’d move on from there.

He lies, curled into a ball in his empty plant room for a long time, just breathing, and is startled to feel Aziraphale’s palm on his chest. For a second, he’s sure the angel’s appeared in his flat, summoned by his angst, but no, the touches on the charm had been lighter perhaps with the span of the Atlantic between them. He pulls himself up, dusting off his clothes and rearranging himself. Aziraphale will know he’s in London now. Might as well give him a call.

He takes a quick shower, and walks back out to his kitchen and he’s really, desperately hating the dark gray walls and grim echoing of his halls. He pulls his cell phone out and dials the angel, eyes a little blurry as he sniffs back the rawness that he’s been living with the last few days.

“A.Z. Fell and Co, how may I assist you?” Aziraphale answers, sounding oddly cool and distant. He’s not expecting Crowley to call, even if he might be in London, and isn’t that telling of _his_ mental state? Crowley gulps past the potential things that might mean, sweeping his eyes off of his wrist and peering around his flat.

Crowley’s eyes are too blurry to read the time so he ducks his head, grumbling, “What time is it, angel?”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounds breathless, and Crowley can _feel _the baited attention he’s garnered.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes out softly. _I love you so much, why did I ever leave? _

“Yeah, I’m coming over. Is it, should I pick up something?” he wants to fit this into some sort of norm, bringing over lunch or dinner, but he’s still having trouble figuring out the time with how hollow he feels, mixed with how just _hearing _Aziraphale’s voice is like a salve on a wound.

“Uh, if you like,” Aziraphale offers, confused.

“Tell me,” Crowley barks. “I’m not hungry, tell me what I’m getting you.” Leonard had been rather forceful about getting Crowley to communicate better about his wants and needs. He agreed _very much_ with Aziraphale’s desire that Crowley not martyr himself on the angel’s desires.

“Uhh,” Aziraphale gulps audibly, trembling. It’s a little before noon, and he honestly hasn’t been very hungry lately either, perhaps nibbling through one course or just drinking a bit of tea here or there. “How about some drinks from the coffeeshop? I can get them,” Aziraphale offers softly.

“Sure,” Crowley sniffs, and Aziraphale can hear the poorly masked husk of emotion underneath the forced nonchalance. “I’ll come right over.”

* * *

Crowley was sort of hoping that coming to Aziraphale’s shop would soothe the curl of tears hiding in his throat, but it’s still there. He sits in the Bentley for a moment, breathing and hiding beneath his hair and his glasses, and Aziraphale lets him even though he’s practically tearing out his hair with a need for Crowley to _just come in already_.

Crowley saunters in, but he isn’t able to maintain his swagger and nonchalance at all. A low sob cracks from his mouth as he takes in Aziraphale, looking a little worry worn with two large plastic cups, one topped with whipped-cream, in his hands.

“Crowley, I—” Aziraphale attempts to hand Crowley his macchiato, but the demon pops the drinks on the desk out of Aziraphale’s hands as he pulls the angel into a hard hug.

“I missed you so much,” Crowley whimpers, and Aziraphale’s a little surprised because Crowley’s changed his height as well as his hair, perhaps two or four inches taller so that Aziraphale’s head fits beautifully into the curve of neck and Crowley’s chin sockets neatly on top of his head. Crowley’s always toyed with his appearance more than Aziraphale, but ever since they’d shared their true forms with one another, Aziraphale has kind of felt that Crowley ought to be a little taller than him. Ten feet versus ten meters? Well, maybe the demon had the right to want to be a little shorter actually, now that he thinks about it.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Crowley grits, and twirls them to the back of the shop with only a little difficulty. He dumps them onto the couch, curling up in Aziraphale’s lap and sniffling. He hadn’t really had any thought-out plan for his reuniting with the angel, but some small part of him is a little affronted that it’s turning out _like this_.

“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks softly, tucking Crowley’s locks behind his ear. It’s even longer than when he’d accidentally made it grow out, brushing where the demon’s wings would shoot out of his back.

“I missed you,” Crowley bubbles a phlegmy laugh at that.

“Yes, I understand that,” Aziraphale smiles fondly, rubbing the demon’s back. “I missed you too, you know,” he offers softly. He’s working to communicate a little better as well, although he’s honestly driving Lilo a little crazy with his know-it-all attitude and stubborn intractability in some things.

“I’m…” Crowley sighs and leans his head on the angel’s shoulder, buzzing with relief that he’s here in Aziraphale’s arms, and it’s okay. Everything’s okay, Aziraphale doesn’t think he’s gross and broken, even though he is. It could just be a normal Wednesday afternoon, Crowley adding some tears and phlegm to the angel’s ancient wardrobe. “I’m a little better, I guess,” he offers quietly, snuggling closer with his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, legs crowded up next to the arm of the daybed.

“That’s good,” Aziraphale kisses his forehead and Crowley shivers, pulling himself tighter into Aziraphale’s lap. “Ah, sorry?”

“No, no,” Crowley winds his head into Aziraphale’s neck and mutters a string of syllables that are all clearly blurring at _I love you_.

They sit like that for nearly an hour, Aziraphale’s bad hip bothering him a little as it has been all this week. Of all the time for it flare, it would be _now_ of course. The lotion does help; in the past when it flared like this, the skin around the gold kintsugi would become brittle and red, sometimes even crackling and bubbling as if there was hell-spit there all over again. The lotion soothes the angelic flesh, leaving only an ache which reverberates up the hip and through his wing, throbbing through the phantom digits and muscles. He shifts a little, and Crowley stiffens and rolls off of his lap with a little difficulty.

“Sorry,” he quickly pulls off his glasses and rubs his face vigorously.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Aziraphale gentles a hand to his shoulder. Crowley’s not the only one who’s desperate for touch, for comfort, right now. Crowley irritably waves, and the two drinks from the coffeeshop appear in front of them at the correct temperature, not melted or cooled, along with the two muffins that Aziraphale had gotten as well.

“You feeling alright, angel?” Crowley squints at the muffins. _Only two? What, did Gabriel visit again while I was gone?_

“Uhhh,” Aziraphale exhales slowly, picking up his peppermint smoothie. It’s seasonal, exclusive, and it had looked quite cute in the advertisements. “I suppose I should’ve listened to you,” he gives Crowley a rueful smile, and Crowley frowns.

“What?” Crowley wrinkles his brow at him, and Aziraphale could honestly write entire epic poems about the beauty of Crowley’s frizzy curls, the way they settle on his forehead and cluster around his throat and shoulder.

“Oh, I,” he sighs deeply, and takes a sip of the drink. He raises his brows, surprised. It’s actually quite good. “I got a bit… out of sorts, with you gone,” he offers sheepishly. “And I visited Limbo,” his eyes dart guiltily over at the demon, who quirks his head and reaches out a hand to cup Aziraphale’s knee.

“Are you alright?” he asks again, eyes piercing and Aziraphale takes a hard swallow of the smoothie, eyes pricking at the bright peppermint and no, not at all related to his feeling unworthy of the demon’s patience, care, or love.

“I’m getting there,” he gives Crowley a soft smile that makes Crowley sigh sadly.

“Oh, angel,” he caresses his cheek, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s, it’s me, dear, not something you could’ve prevented,” he pats Crowley’s knee. “We can keep running from things, but they always catch up, eventually,” he sighs.

He wrinkles his nose conspiratorially, “I’m not really one for running, anyway.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, shaking his head and grinning. “Yeah, okay,” he nods.

“They’re badgering me a little, but I suppose it’s for my own good,” he waves a hand, looking tired under his feigned goodwill. 

“Therapy sucks,” Crowley snickers into his cup.

“How was America?” Aziraphale asks airily, and he almost manages to tuck away the vein of protectiveness and jealousy. Crowley inhales deeply, taking another sip.

“I was visiting an old friend,” he offers quietly after a moment. Aziraphale nods primly, not meeting his eyes because he wants to interrogate: _who? Why? What were you doing? It’s fine, I don’t have to know_. _It’s fine, goddamn it, stop jittering_.

“He’s uh, he’s a vampire that lives in Florida. Leonard?” Crowley squints at the angel, looking to see if there’s any flicker of recognition there. He’s not sure if he’s ever really told Aziraphale about Leonard before.

Aziraphale gives him a curt shake of his head, nibbling one of the muffins with mild disinterest. “Perhaps I could meet him whenever we visit America,” he offers, waving his napkin and Crowley barks a loud laugh at the possessive look tucked behind Aziraphale’s well-meaning interest.

“He’s not like your vampires,” Crowley runs a palm through his hair, pushing it back as he shakes his head. Aziraphale had hung out with a suite of ex-dandies, all posh and hoity-toity and it had made Crowley want to sweep in and destroy their stupid velvet curtains, listening to Aziraphale laugh his _real laugh_ with those vain bloodsuckers. “Plus, he’s my therapist,” he waves a hand, smirking a little as Aziraphale’s mouth drops open.

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinks. “Oh, I see,” he tilts his head, considering Crowley’s long-hair and frailty in a new light.

“Yeah, I’m supposed to check in and maybe go back in a week,” he shrugs, feigning disinterest poorly.

“Oh, but, Anathema and Newt are coming by next week,” Aziraphale frowns at him.

“Electronics,” Crowley corrects, and Aziraphale blinks. “It’s not Newt anymore. Electronics.”

“Right,” Aziraphale nods. “Right, sorry,” he shakes his head a little and squints at Crowley. _So, they’re one of yours, then?_ Crowley shrugs a little. _Fuck if I know, angel, it’s up to them to figure it out_.

“I’ll have to let Leonard know, I guess,” he smiles. “Was just supposed to have a week back to normalcy. Stop missing you like a bloody drug,” he grins loosely at the angel who gives him a pitying smile.

“Well, I’ll try to be as normal as possible,” Aziraphale gives him a quivering smile, which just makes Crowley toss his head back in a cackle.

“Just be yourself, angel. We’ll get through this,” he sips at the last of his macchiato, tipping the last drips into his open mouth. Aziraphale watches him fondly, a soft, hopeful smile on his lips.

“You can check more often, if you like,” Crowley offers quietly, shading his face with his hair.

“Hm?” Aziraphale sniffs, peeling off the paper on the second muffin.

“I don’t mind you checking,” he gestures at the chain with the ring around his neck. “It’s comforting, sort of,” he sniffs. “When you’re not freaking out, I guess,” he amends, remembering the painful jangle of Aziraphale’s hands in his chest as he realized Crowley was stuck in a devil’s trap.

“Oh,” Aziraphale exhales softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Are you listening to me angel?” Crowley tilts his head up so that the curtain of hair shifts back, and his eyes are half-lidded but smirking. “Do you know how often I check?”

Aziraphale stills at that, eyes darting around his face. He delicately shakes his head no after a moment, pinned by Crowley’s hunted look. Crowley reaches out a hand, not for the ring but for the brass cable, like a particularly thick string of a harp that he’s seen Aziraphale’s lifeline as for eons. He holds Aziraphale’s eyes as he gently caresses the cable, letting his finger slowly tick over the texture of the tight cord, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up in recognition. It feels like a phantom brush of fingertips on his shoulder, as if someone were passing him by on a crowded sidewalk, or it could just as easily be a soft brush of a breeze, or the shift of his coat on his shoulders. It’s something he’s felt throughout the ages, and he’s always just shrugged a little at it, brushing it off. Sometimes these corporations just did that he’d learned, an odd itch or tickle which didn’t really mean anything at all, just a synaptic misfire.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes a little heavily as it hits him, just how long Crowley has had his finger on him. He’d started feeling it _days_ after Eden, and Aziraphale clutches his chest as he realizes _oh my god you’ve loved me for so long, I’m a fool I’m a fool_.

“Aziraphale? Angel, I’m sorry,” Crowley withdraws his hand from the cord like it’s bit him, and starts forward.

Aziraphale grabs his face unthinkingly, and kisses Crowley hard enough to rob him of his breath. Crowley is incredibly confused because there’s heat there, a desperation, but it’s not the bubbly lust he’s become more familiar with it. It’s the kiss of someone who’s just saved their lover from drowning, who’s in the process of drowning themselves because they won’t let themselves clear their lungs, catch their breath, but they can’t stop because they’re just so _fucking_ grateful, _you’re alive, you’re mine, just let me have this, please_.

“I’m a fool,” Aziraphale croaks, shivering as he leans his forehead against Crowley’s.

Crowley gives him a soft, wavering smile, and repeats Aziraphale’s words back at him, “We’re all fools in love.” Aziraphale huffs fondly and kisses him again, lighter this time.

“You can… you don’t have to do it so lightly, dear,” Aziraphale’s voice cracks, and his eyes dart around the demon’s face, “I’m not made of porcelain.”

“Angel,” Crowley croons, cradling his face in his hands with tears in his eyes.

* * *

They spend the rest of the afternoon in, Crowley dozing in and out on Aziraphale’s lap. At one point, he realizes Aziraphale’s hip is bothering him, and forces the angel to accept a backrub. His wings don’t flare out this time, but his eyes do roll back as the demon keeps going, just massaging for the closeness of it, the care and the love.

“Dinner,” Crowley husks, sinking so that his head is notched above Aziraphale’s and his arms spool out over his chest. His fingers twitch idly, and Aziraphale breath catches as he sees the potential there, the possibility of Crowley’s fingers groping his chest and stomach.

“D-dinner?” Aziraphale stammers uselessly, flushing.

“It’s…” Crowley glowers at his wrist, because it’s right, but _his_ time is a little off with the trip to Florida and spending all his time with a vampire. “Well, it’s a little late but we’re eating something ‘cause I’m hungry,” he grumbles.

“Seven is not that late, dear,” Aziraphale pats the demon’s arm. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Food,” Crowley grumbles, not helpful at all, but he hefts himself up off of Aziraphale. “C’mon, your hip still bugging you?”

“No, no, of course not, you’ve seen to that,” Aziraphale tuts, getting up and cracking his neck and reshuffling his shoulders post-massage.

“I want chips,” Crowley itches his upper lip, looking pensive as he pulls his glasses back on, “And a milkshake.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale nods. “There’s a diner on the way to your flat that fits the bill,” he smiles, but it turns into a frown at the anguish that passes over the demon’s face at the mention of his flat. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m gonna have to move, angel,” he sighs, looking exhausted at the prospect.

“What?” Aziraphale starts, putting a hand out to catch the demon’s as if he’s just been put off balance and needs support to keep from falling.

“I…” Crowley starts, voice tight and he closes his eyes and quivers for a moment. “I—Later, later,” he growls stuffing it down. “It’s not tonight,” he sniffs hard. “It’s fine for now.”

“Did something happen to your flat?” Aziraphale asks, feeling a little light-headed with panic. He was working a bit on the whole _naming_ of emotions thing. It’s a struggle sometimes, but it does help.

“No,” Crowley takes another deep breath, stuffing down the glassy ache. “No, it’s fine. Just me,” he gives him a tight smile. “C’mon, there’s a diner with… well, they don’t do reservations,” he rubs his face. “Whatever.” He pulls Aziraphale along since he’s still got his hand on his wrist and the angel willingly follows. Crowley deposits him next to his coat rack so that he can suit back up.

“Thank you dear,” Aziraphale smiles as Crowley delicately helps him put on his waistcoat and coat, adjusting the lapels with his eyes soft behind the glasses. He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead, and pauses.

“Is this okay?” Crowley asks, expression fuzzy as he gestures at the height difference. “Kind of snuck up on me, didn’t mean to do it.”

“I love it,” Aziraphale grins shyly up at him, and for a second he’s sure that Crowley’s going to grunt and shove him off but the demon smiles softly after a moment. It’s bizarre to realize just how much time Crowley takes with some things, processing and stalling in conversation as if he can’t come up with a word. They’ve both glossed a bit much on each other, a bit of _oh you’re so much better than me at that_, and being in each other’s company more often than say, one to two days every few years is slowly unspooling those presumptions. Crowley might worry that familiarity would breed contempt, but Aziraphale finds it just makes the love in his chest bloom even more. _You’re so much better than I could have ever conceived,_ but there’s no self-flagellation in it this time.

“Come along then, they close at ten I think,” Aziraphale clasps their hands together and gestures towards the door.

* * *

Aziraphale’s appetite has returned, and he tries not to think too hard about the deeper meaning of that with Crowley sneaking chips away one at a time. He’s fondly reminded the demon that they’re _his_, he doesn’t have to sneak them, but somehow they keep finding their way back on to Aziraphale’s plate and Crowley’s lithe fingers dart forward, just out of his periphery, making his smile bitten as he talks about nothing in particular.

“I’m supposed to tell you something,” Crowley sniffs, loudly sucking down the last of his milkshake. Aziraphale perks up at that as it’s the first thing the demon’s said in the diner that’s more than one or two syllables.

“Of course,” Aziraphale nods, resting his chin on his palm, giving Crowley all of his attention. The demon looks incredibly spooked by that, and his eyes dart all over the diner for a moment. The glasses he’s wearing are, well, Aziraphale doesn’t think they’re _new_, but he hasn’t seen them before. They’re very faintly tinted, not very useful for day-wear but enough that if you just had a mild headache, or perhaps snake eyes that are a little sensitive to phosphorescent light, they’d help. Perhaps something from spending all of his hours with a vampire, he muses.

Crowley takes a deep breath and forces himself out of the slouch that has sunk him to almost lying in the naugahyde booth seating, most of his serpentine body spooled under the table but somehow not crowding Aziraphale. He stares at the remains of their dinner with a sniff, and peers around the restaurant. There are a few other people still around, and it’s getting late enough that a few drunken groups have drizzled in and draped themselves in the booths. Crowley draws a finger down the edge of the table, eyes following the silvery line that he leaves, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise at the little barrier of silence Crowley has just gifted them.

“We could go back to the shop?” Aziraphale offers, and Crowley shrugs a little, still not meeting his eyes.

“I love you,” he starts, and the honesty in Crowley’s eyes almost knocks all the air out of Aziraphale’s lungs as he realizes,_ Whatever he’s going to say is going to hurt_.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he sighs deeply. “I’ve wanted _you_, for so long,” Crowley’s voice breaks, his mouth pinches downward and he’s staring very pointedly at Aziraphale’s shoulder again. “I’m terrified of losing you by saying no, when… when you push, because I’ve waited so long. _We’ve_ waited so long.”

Aziraphale nods a little robotically, mouth open.

“I can’t promise it’ll be tomorrow, or—” he makes a tight noise of frustration and pinches his nose. “I will let you know when I’m ready. Don’t feel bad pushing, I need it. I _want_ it. Just… listen, when I say no. And you have, _you have_, this isn’t me saying—” he makes a frustrated noise, and pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses again. Aziraphale nods rapidly, leaning forward, and Crowley frowns at him.

“I will let you know when I’m finally, fucking,” he makes an angry tense noise, “_ready_.” His shoulders are taut, his head turned away and he tucks his eyes back to Aziraphale as the angel gulps.

“Okay,” he offers softly, “I would wait forever, Crowley.” Crowley growls at that, rolling his shoulders and looking like a cornered animal. He sighs, and the barrier dissipates suddenly; the soft murmurs and laughs of the drunkards are startling after the brittle silence mixed with Crowley’s bare honesty.

“I’m going to make sure it’s not _forever_, angel,” Crowley growls, and Aziraphale has to force himself to look away from the possessive heat in the demon’s eyes as he suddenly gets very flush. Crowley sighs softly, rubbing his face. “Just not ready right now.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale nods, folding the cheap paper napkin into a swan without really thinking about it. “It would be a bit rash, right now, anyway,” he babbles anxiously and gives Crowley a sly smile, eliciting a bark of laughter. “We are in public after all.” Crowley snorts, covering his face as he blushes.

“Sorry,” he sighs, rubbing his mouth. “Leonard was _adamant_ I make it clear. I’m just so terrified of losing you,” he sighs, helplessly reaching across the table. Aziraphale’s fingers easily link up with his and he smiles.

“I love you, my darling,” Aziraphale gives him deeply fond look. “I love you in all your capacities and capabilities.” Crowley whimpers at that, ducking his head. “I could keep going,” he whispers, leaning forward, and Crowley’s eyes tick up at him, “or is this too much?”

Crowley’s mouth works for a moment as he thinks. “Ya wanna stay over?” he asks, eyes pinned to the red-and-white checked tablecloth.

“I’d love to,” Aziraphale lets just a little lust bleed into it, recognizing the flush on Crowley’s cheeks.

* * *

Crowley’s a little jittery as he lets Aziraphale into his flat. The angel peers around curiously considering Crowley’s weird reaction earlier.

“You got all of your plants moved?” he asks, peering around the echoing plant room. He frowns at the fact that the most certainly lewd and not at all ‘just wrestling’ statue is missing.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs. “’S quiet without ‘em,” he rubs his arms, clothed in a few thin sweaters that do nothing to hide his breasts.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale frowns a little, peering down the hallway. It _is_ quiet, but for him it’s the feeling of a terrible daydream that he’s entertained of walking into the demon’s flat to find it abandoned. “Just let me know when you move, dear,” he mutters, and he doesn’t even notice his own possessive grab on the demon’s elbow.

“’Course,” Crowley smiles down at him and delicately tugs the angel closer.

“Ah,” Aziraphale blushes. With Crowley a little taller, his breasts are at a somewhat more distracting height, closer to his eyeline. “What’re you in the mood for?” he keeps his hold loose on the demon’s wrists. Crowley looks away nervously, shifting his weight.

“Compliments,” he offers softly, tucking his glasses off. “And _you_,” and the way he licks his lips makes Aziraphale feel faint.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes, swaying a little.

“Uh,” Crowley catches his shoulder. “Sorry,” he grins a little shakily. “I don’t think…” he sighs as he runs his tremoring hand through his hair. “Can’t take you uh… no touching me,” he shakes a finger, negating, in front of where Aziraphale’s hands are pinching one another near his waistcoat buttons. “But I’d like to touch you,” he leans his head down, and lets his voice lower an octave, grinning shamelessly as Aziraphale’s eyes dilate.

“If…” Aziraphale takes a deep breath and forces himself to take a step away. Crowley tilts his head, watching him in the way that a predator watches prey and _goodness_, Crowley’s interest is so bloody _heady_.

“If you’re touching me, then needs be, I will be touching you?” Aziraphale frowns at him, pedantic at the worst of times.

Crowley chuckles and rolls his eyes, leaning against the back of his couch. “I would like,” he offers to his nails, blushing furiously. “I would like to show you just how much I want you,” he gives him a shy look from under his hair, but then he sighs a little, shivering as he looks away. “Just don’t think I can deal with… I don’t know if I’ll be able to… get off, and,” he makes a tight noise, rucking his hand through his hair.

“I see,” Aziraphale breathes out slowly. “So, I may touch you only with my words?” Aziraphale gives him a sly grin that makes Crowley’s knees turn to jelly, taking a step forward.

“Y-yeah,” Crowley gulps. 

“Well, my dear,” Aziraphale tucks Crowley’s hair behind his ear, about to begin with his seductive words but he freezes, realizing he’s already screwed it up.

“’s fine, ‘s fine,” Crowley snorts. “Just can’t deal with a hand job right now, angel, please,” he takes Aziraphale’s hand and kisses the palm before holding it to his cheek.

“Right, good,” Aziraphale nods. “Shall we…?” he turns his gaze towards Crowley’s bedroom, and squawks as the demon suddenly scoops him up, wrapping his legs around Crowley’s hips instinctively as the demon carts him around.

“Here’s fine,” Crowley husks into his neck as he nips a kiss there, delicately depositing the angel onto the couch. Crowley kneels atop Aziraphale, awkwardly straddling but not sitting on Aziraphale’s lap as he kisses him teasingly, fingers delicately drawing up and down the edges of his lapels.

“You’ll let me know if I go overboard?” Yellow eyes flick worriedly up at him, and Aziraphale can’t help the fond laugh that rises from him at that.

He caresses Crowley’s cheek, and begins. “You lovely, caring thing,” he whispers, and Crowley’s mouth pops open into a soft ‘o.’

“You are so good to me, dear boy.” Crowley shivers a little, biting his lip, and flicks his eyes over the angel sitting in front of him.

“Of course I will let you know,” Aziraphale adds, one hand caressing and supporting the demon’s thigh where it’s tremoring a little holding himself above Aziraphale’s lap.

Crowley lets out a shaky breath and gives him a weak smile and Aziraphale would do it all over again, just to see that again, to have _this_. Crowley lets his eyelids droop, and purposefully kisses Aziraphale before he can start tearing him apart with more compliments. He softly tucks his hands under the edges of his overcoat, but doesn’t let their mouths disconnect as Aziraphale leans forward to help him remove it. He unbuttons his waistcoat reverently, tongue softly clicking into his mouth with each button separated from the appropriate hole and it’s all so delicate and loving and caring that Aziraphale has to push him off for a moment to pant, a little overwhelmed.

“Alright?” he husks softly, and a moan croons out of Aziraphale’s throat because Crowley’s voice at that octave is a _lethal weapon_ and he’s flaying him alive with it.

“You’re,” he pants, scrabbling over a number of things that all sound stupid: _You’re so attractive I have no words for it. Your voice sounds more heavenly than any angelic choir. I would do anything for you right now if you used that voice_.

“You’re so blessedly kind,” Aziraphale huffs, wry smile wrinkling his lips and brow crinkling in fond frustration because the demon has delicately taken off his waistcoat and mended the thin, frail edges that he’s been worrying over, a hundred years old and too far gone for a proper, human mending.

Crowley closes his eyes as the words hit him, pursing his lips and quivering and _goodness_, he really is going to make the poor thing go to pieces just by telling him the truth, breathing kindness into his soul.

“’m not. ’m really not,” Crowley protests, blinking and breathing hard, forcing himself to focus.

Crowley kisses him again, undoing his shirt with the same reverence for each button, pausing as he reaches the bottom and realizes he’s going to have deal with his pants if he’s going to get this particular shirt off. He breaks the kiss for a moment, and finally drops himself into his lap and Aziraphale chews his tongue because the fact that he can’t touch, can’t help, when Crowley’s erection is _right there_ and he looks so flushed and desperately needy, it’s, he honestly can’t believe he agreed to it because it’s _torture_.

He grabs Crowley and kisses him hard, because he can kiss, and he can dig his fingers into russet curls, and maybe through that he can communicate it: _I want you so much I love you I want this I want you._ He feels Crowley laugh softly into his mouth and the demon reaches down and cups him through his pants, making Aziraphale see stars.

Crowley pulls off of him, a soft amazed smile on his lips as he slowly undoes the buttons of his slacks, eyes warm and soft. Aziraphale’s quivering, tremoring, so close to the edge that it’s difficult to remember something. He’s supposed to be doing something, what was it again?

“Y-you’re terribly good at this, dear,” he breathes, as Crowley pulls off his shirt, finally freed of the tuck, and then begins gently rolling up his undershirt.

“’m a demon,” he grins, insouciant. “Try again,” he quirks a brow, flushed and smirking just a little as he draws the undershirt over his head. Aziraphale closes his eyes for a second, breathing deep to try to regain his footing, burning up even though he ought to be chilling with nothing on his top-half. Crowley peels himself off of his lap, and Aziraphale makes a frustrated noise as Crowley rucks all three sweaters off of his torso at once, leaving him in a black thread-worn bra and jeans, sheening with sweat.

“Up,” Crowley sniffs, motioning, and Aziraphale jerks upright and has to, twice, force his hands to keep away from Crowley’s obvious arousal. Crowley smirks, holding Aziraphale’s eyes as he grabs both his boxers and slacks and shucks them down off of his hips to the floor in one fell swoop. Aziraphale wobbles backwards, naked but for his shoes and socks which Crowley quickly remedies after folding up his slacks and soiled underwear, miracling them clean again.

“Thoughtful,” Aziraphale caresses Crowley’s chin, and the yellow eyes that meet his look amazed that this is actually happening, right here, right now. “You notice so much, and you file it away. You—” his incisive monologue is interrupted as Crowley ducks his hold, and kisses his knee while his fingers softly massage up his leg. “You clever thing,” Aziraphale breathes as the demon gently pulls Aziraphale’s hips forwards, and lays kisses over his thigh, slowly leading inward.

Crowley’s body temperature is perhaps four to five degrees cooler than Aziraphale’s, and honestly, that doesn’t seem like that should be so much of a difference. But it is, isn’t it? His lips have been all over the angel for the past however long, so he should be warming, but the lips on Aziraphale’s inner thigh are cool, chilling in comparison to his blazing heat. Aziraphale is expecting cool lips against him and jumps as he feels the soft flutter of red curls against his slick lips instead, and gasps, hips bucking towards the demon. He decides he’s going to have to give up temporarily on destroying the demon with compliments as the cool, not quite human tongue introduces itself to his outer lips, and kisses wetly inwards.

Aziraphale has mostly lain with homosexual men in his time on Earth, although he’s occasionally been something like a butchy femme lesbian, crooking his fingers and wiggling his eyebrows saucily at the local witch. Whatever the gender, he’s incredibly, effusively gay, and it’s both something that he makes an effort to keep up, and also something that’s so integral to him that he couldn’t change it if he wanted to.

Lately, and lately as in the last few centuries, he hasn’t really bothered with the whole relationship business, diving in for a quick frolic and then carrying on with his life. He has his needs, though, and at the times when Aziraphale’s needed to blow off a little steam, he’ll often just get himself off vicariously with a cock in his mouth. He’s quite good at it, honestly, what with having rather a lot of years to practice and he’s found contextualizing the experience around another’s orgasm made it richer, shuddering to completion without even touching himself if the fellow in his mouth happened to be the breathy, mouthy sort, perhaps even the sort with a silky, dark voice. He did his best not to think about the deeper meaning of _that_, always so focused on just this, just right now, just need to get this bubble popped so I can get back to _doing normal things_ and stop thinking about a certain demon who may have stopped by looking like something out of the halls of his daydreams even though he knows, _he knows_, it’s just normal, everyday for him. _Damn him_.

If pressed on the lack of reciprocation he might toss his head, smile saucily, and say, _It’s no trouble, truly, now, why exactly are your trousers still on? There’s a good boy_. He is really very fond of cocks, but he finds actually using one himself to be a bit much. They’re too sensitive, the orgasms too loud and over all too fast and then the bloody refractory period? He could do without it, honestly.

All of this to say, it’s been a very, _very _long time since someone has known Aziraphale with their mouth, and he’s panting on the edge already. When Crowley’s tongue slips inside of him, a thick, forked muscle, and the demon’s finally starting to warm with his mouth here at this blessed font of heat, it’s as inevitable as the tide.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gasps, skin blazing out in a heavenly glow that he can’t help, not right now, one of his hands holding Crowley’s curls to keep him in place while the other palms his own chest and neck as he rolls and rocks through his first orgasm. “Oh, my darling,” he quivers, and Crowley groans into him. Aziraphale tenses again, whining and gasping, and Crowley keeps going because Aziraphale hasn’t said, _no, stop, enough_, and he’s showing how much he wants him. _To the end of the universe and back, _he thinks hard, shivering near his own precipice. There’s no conscious thought in it as he curls himself around Aziraphale’s leg and bucks there, groaning again as Aziraphale spasms his third out on his tongue and fingers now.

Aziraphale’s mouth is just littering out ‘my dear’s and ‘darling’ and ‘oh my wonderful’ as Crowley’s clever mouth sucks and kisses him into oblivion again. Aziraphale pants, loosening his hand from the demon’s hair as he realizes Crowley’s undone his own pants and his hips are rocking lightly near his shin, a dark wet spot shining on his boxer briefs.

“You’re the nicest—” he hisses as Crowley kisses into him hungrily, “the kindest demon.” Aziraphale pants, “the sweetest, huh! Y-you saved the-the world, f-for bookshops and, and, wine, and, hope and l-love, and _oh Crowley_.” Aziraphale groans heavily, eyes rolling back as the demon lets out a low, continuous hum from the back of his throat, reverberating down his tongue which is so deeply nestled inside him. It takes Aziraphale a few moments of blinking away stars to realize that the hum had been Crowley’s own orgasm, as the demon’s hips are still stuttering near his shin and he’s withdrawn from Aziraphale’s lap, looking sodden and drunk.

“Zirfel,” he husks, a little fear trembling in the yellow eyes darting around his face.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale laughs fondly, caressing the demon’s cheek which is absolutely shellacked in his wetness. “That was splendid,” he whispers, kissing Crowley’s forehead. The demon grunts, hips shuddering forward again and he closes his eyes, whining a little and laying his head on Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Shall I continue?” Aziraphale lowers his voice a tick and grins at the grunt and rut forward that produces in the demon.

“’Nuff,” Crowley sniffs, shivering but not withdrawing from his lap.

“Mmm, but it _was_ quite lovely,” he whispers, fingers toying through Crowley’s mussed curls. Crowley doesn’t grunt or jerk this time, just gulps thickly and blinks.

“You taste good,” Crowley sniffs, which for some reason, makes Aziraphale belt out a laugh and flump back onto the couch, still laughing a deep, resounding belly laugh. “Y’do,” the demon’s brow is crinkled incredulously as Aziraphale wipes tears from his eyes.

“Goodness, I love you,” Aziraphale sighs deeply.

“Yeh,” Crowley chuckles. “Was that enough?” he asks, fingers tickling the white hairs on Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale grins. “I think I’m ready for a bath and a kip, honestly.”

“A kip?” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

* * *

Aziraphale finds himself sleeping just a bit as well. He’s realizing that sleeping may be problematic for even more numerous reasons than before because he wakes up blearily in the early morning, body convulsing with lust, and for a moment he can’t think of anything else, especially with Crowley coiled around his back. The demon’s hard, morning wood pressed against his lower back, and Aziraphale bites his lip against the taut whimpers that want to escape him at that fact. Aziraphale forces himself still as intense daydreams rock through him, perhaps softly miracling away their clothes and easily guiding the stiff prick into him from behind. He’s so slick that it would slip in as if it was meant to be there, and it is, _oh it is_. Oh, it would be _heavenly_, and he’s trembling and if he doesn’t calm himself, he’s going to wake the demon who’s still snoring softly on his shoulder.

Once he’s sure that his next move won’t involve his hands or hips and Crowley’s cock, he gently removes himself from Crowley’s sleep-slack hold and trembles, watching the thin creature sniff and sleepily resort himself without Aziraphale’s presence. He coils into a ball in the residual heat-spot that Aziraphale’s left and snuggles his head into pillow that had so recently held his head.

_Oh my love_, Aziraphale’s fingers tremble as he brushes the curls from Crowley’s brow.

* * *

Crowley stumbles awake some hours later, stretching and feeling a little stiff, just a mild headache around the edges. His bed still smells deliciously of Aziraphale, deep cedar forests so dense with water shed and… and the odd warm, sting of cardamom that he’s very recently come to realize is Aziraphale’s sex. He’s only a little frustrated that it has him responding, even though he’d woken up unaffected. It’s lucky that cardamom is a spice that’s a bit outside of his normal palette, because it looks like he’s going to be getting an erection now whenever he smells or tastes it. He nips off for a quick shower, shunting his arousal back and rushing just a little because Aziraphale is still in his flat, and he doesn’t want to keep the angel.

He’s braiding his hair as he stalks out into his dining area, and it feels a little less terrible here in his flat with Aziraphale. That says something, doesn’t it?

“Oh! Good morning dear,” Aziraphale smiles at him, brushing crumbs off of his chest. Crowley kisses his cheek as he passes, and Aziraphale titters.

“Morning,” Crowley sniffs, revving up the coffee grinder and rooting around for his espresso filters. “Ya want me to drop you off?” he glances back at the angel who’s watching him fondly.

“Oh, no, it’s fine dear, the walk will do me some good,” he offers softly.

Crowley frowns at him. “You’re not getting all health conscious on me, are you, angel?”

Aziraphale giggles, “Oh no, of course not.” He flaps a hand at him, shaking his head, “Another storm’s coming in this weekend and I want to enjoy the good weather while it’s here.”

Crowley scoffs at that. “Good weather, right,” he smirks at the bright gray clouds outside. The sun’s out behind them, but it’s still blisteringly cold and windy out.

“D-do you think,” Aziraphale quavers a bit as Crowley looks up at him. “I… my therapist was suggesting I get a cell phone,” he simpers a little, ignoring Crowley’s smirk that he’s not hiding very well at all behind his cup. “Perhaps you could help me obtain one?”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley leans over the counter, kitty-corner to Aziraphale. “Got any preferences?”

“Well of course,” Aziraphale smiles, pushing a paper-clipped cluster of magazine clippings and print-outs across the counter to the demon. Crowley quirks his head, flipping through them with a smirking frown. They’re all so incredibly out of date so as to be unavailable, or exorbitantly expensive and difficult to maintain.

“D’ya want me to make you one, then?” he asks, peering up at him. Aziraphale would sometimes fluster a little when Crowley produced something completely unique, nonexistent until he called it from the ether with a whim.

“Well, no, that’s, that’s not the point,” he pouts, and Crowley laughs.

“Ridiculous,” Crowley shakes his head fondly. “I’ll see what I can do,” he offers after a moment, returning his warm gaze to the angel.

* * *

Aziraphale leaves not long after that, starting as he remembers he has a delivery he needs to catch sometime around ten, and he needs to give Lilo a call as well. Crowley leads him to the front door and they kiss a tender goodbye, lingering just a little.

“I’ll probably be by later,” Crowley sniffs, fingers toying with mended lapels. “Gotta stop by my shop.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale smiles, “Take care of yourself.”

Crowley watches the angel leave, leaning a hip on his doorway and smiling fondly. He doesn’t quite notice his neighbor, the somewhat tall Asian woman who streams or records videos or something, walking up to let herself into her flat after a night out. She peers over at him, curiously. She tends to think of him as Mr. Snake, even though she knows his name is Mr. Crowley from the label on his mailbox. She’s lived here for about five years, somewhat curious about the creature whose gender flipped with the breeze, and who owned an absolutely absurd amount of snake-themed accessories and clothing. The nickname hadn’t really solidified, or become a fond refrain, until one day when Crowley had softly knocked on her door and proffered one of those unmarked cardboard boxes (you know the ones), which had dented and shifted in travelling and had a rather… telltale, phallic shape to it.

“British post’s as great as ever,” he’d sniffed, offering no judgement and simply commenting on the fact that they’d banged it up _and_ _then_ stuffed it into the wrong mailbox to boot. She’d been absolutely mortified, but primly nodded and nabbed the package from his hands and chucked it deep into her flat like it was a ticking grenade he was holding.

She’d dimly noted the tiny smile tucked behind his glasses and the serpent-shaped tattoo on his cheek, and she should’ve slammed the door in his face, squeaked thanks, and never talked to him again, avoided him at all costs. But he smiled at her, soft and warm, and had asked after the band on her shirt as if they had not just shared a mortifyingly embarrassing moment together. He’d guided them back to ease and humanity and she was _so grateful_ for it that she’d bought him a small jade statue of a serpent for Christmas that year.

He’d laughed easily, and told her, “Be careful with gifts. Gives people expectations.” It made her think of the way the fae talked in some of the pulpy fantasy novels she read, and she’d been careful and exacting with her words with him since then. _I appreciate you picking up my mail for me while I was out. I do not owe you my soul for it though_.

Funny how people come to the right conclusions through the wrong methods, isn’t it?

“Mr. Crowley?” she steps forward, startling the demon from his angelic-themed reverie.

“Morning,” Crowley sniffs, considering the human stepping close with mild interest.

“You’re up early,” she smiles sardonically and he chuckles.

“As are you,” he grins, eyes twinkling behind tinted glass.

“Uhm,” Rina, the neighbor, quirks her head, a worried crease wrinkling her forehead. “Were you, uhm, did you hire a new housekeeper?”

Crowley frowns at her. He’s kept a housekeeper once or twice through the years with this flat; it fit the image, and that’s almost all that mattered with this particular home. He eventually let them go because it just felt wrong if it wasn’t him picking up his mess, rubbing his nose in his own slovenly habits.

“No?” he rubs his nose, “Don’t have one right now.”

Rina shakes her head, and clicks her tongue. “I thought it was odd.” She pulls out her phone, flipping through pictures. “I took a few pictures; someone was snooping around.”

Crowley takes her phone as she offers it, frown deepening as he recognizes the demonic shiver in the pictures. If something occult doesn’t want their picture taken, they blur and fade as if they’re constantly in movement. It’s not just a minor demon because they’re clearly palming his get-distracted charms and not… getting distracted, but he doesn’t recognize them. They’d probably be off developing horrendous hives and pustules by this point, though.

“Huh,” he cocks his head and hands her the phone back, “Thanks for telling me.”

“Of course,” she nods, narrowly avoiding _you’re welcome_ because that could lead into _you’re welcome to me, and my soul, and anything else I could give you_.

* * *

Crowley was planning to maybe take it easy today, make some bread, do a little idle googling of old cell-phones and maybe, _maybe_ if he felt up to it, he’d look into Rosier’s sudden uptick in interest. He shuffles his agenda, tucking himself into his puffy coat, several thin shirts and a binder, and drives over to the bookshop.

Aziraphale’s not there yet, which is only mildly surprising. It’s not a long walk from Mayfair to Soho, but there are a lot of little cafes, cute dogs, and other idyllic distractions which could cause an angel to take a little longer making it home. Crowley sockets his key into the door as a panting, freckled youth with a heavy box in his arms comes forward from a loud truck. Crowley signs for it, and tucks it under his arm as he steps into the shop. It’s not fighting with him this time, which is a blessing. He likes the shop, and he’d rather it wasn’t dark, spooky, or unwelcoming.

He uses the claw on his thumb to slit the box open, peering at a box full of fresh copies of _Feminism is for Everybody! _and a full suite of reprinted bell hooks. Apparently, the queer and gender lit section is popular enough that he’s restocking it regularly. He might just sit and wait for the angel, but well, there’s a whole box of books here to shelve and there’s empty shelves that make it clear where to fit them.

Crowley had forgotten to relock the shop when he came in, but the shop knows Aziraphale expects it to be locked, and so it is. Crowley turns from his task, slotting a final copy of _My Secret Garden_ into place as he hears the rough sound of metal gears turning and doors opening.

“Oh!” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley winces as the angel gropes hard at the charm: _is that actually you or am I seeing things? _

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley chuckles, blowing a stray lock out of his hair. “Gotta teach you how to do that without it stinging so much,” he rubs his chest, grimacing.

“Oh, oh,” Aziraphale pants, regaining his breath after the start. “I’m sorry dear, I was _not_ expecting anyone in here.”

“I can tell,” Crowley chuckles, smiling lopsidedly.

“T-to what do I owe the pleasure?” he smiles, brow wrinkling fondly as he recognizes the mostly empty box and the now-filled shelves.

“Can’t just visit?” Crowley smirks, but he’s already pulling out his phone and walking up to the angel. “My neighbor took these,” he sidles up next to the angel, offering his phone. She did not send the pictures to him, nor transfer them in anyway, so they honestly shouldn’t be here in his gallery. But Crowley expects them to be, and so there they are.

“Oh,” Aziraphale takes his phone, tilting the screen to peer at the blurry demonic figure. “While you were out, then?” he shakingly swipes the screen as he’s seen Crowley do in the past, bringing up a second picture at a similar angle, the demonic figure peering in a keyhole now.

“I guess,” Crowley sighs, leaning his head on the angel’s shoulder, “Maybe I need some of your protections around.” His yellow eyes flick up at the shop, bold and clear magical signage declaring, “This is the home of one angel, Principality of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale. If you arrive here with violence in your heart, you will find no succor here. Leave, lest your bones turn to ash, your flesh boil, your consciousness rent from this plane.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiles delightedly at him. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea,” he pats Crowley’s shoulder awkwardly with how the demon’s leaning against him.

“S’pose I could return the favor,” he gestures, and Aziraphale quirks his head at him. “You don’t like having too many customers,” he pulls back, tucking his hands into his small pockets and slowly pacing around.

“Y-you would do that?” Aziraphale quavers, starting as the phone’s screen goes dark with no input from him.

“Angel,” Crowley laughs fondly. “I would be the blade in your hand, if you let me,” his smile is soft and earnest, and Aziraphale’s heart _melts_. “Let me just make it so that fewer people wander in here.”

* * *

Aziraphale’s sure that he’s going to have to shift things around, pull up a sigil here or there so that Crowley will have room for his. It’s a different sort of magic, though, and Crowley’s obfuscations delicately knit in between, nestling and splaying between one rune of violence and another of protection.

“Uhm, m-may I also do your shop?” Aziraphale asks, watching as Crowley’s hand shimmers near his bedroom window, fingers splayed out and wiggling.

“’s a good idea,” Crowley nods. “Uhm, here,” Crowley shakes his hand out, peering around. He’s enrobed the entire shop in a soft blanket of _this place is quiet and soft and safe, and perhaps you might like to go somewhere else… unless you’re looking for that sort of thing?_ Crowley is always looking for that sort of thing, after all, and Aziraphale would still want _some_ visitors. He catches Aziraphale’s eye and jerks his head back towards the bottom floor.

Aziraphale follows him curiously, and obediently sits as the demon pats the sofa.

“Let’s work on not jangling the hell out of me when you check,” he pulls out the ring on a chain from his cluster of sweaters.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods.

“And I suppose, I’ll try to… be a little more obvious,” he sniffs, rolling the ring between his thumb and forefinger, and he delicately lets his fingers touch, not just Aziraphale’s shoulder, but a little closer to his collarbones, his center. Aziraphale’s mouth pops open in surprise at that.

“Go on,” he gestures towards the angel’s left hand where he’s still, _bless him_, he’s still wearing it like a wedding band on his ring finger.

Aziraphale concentrates hard, screwing up his face and making Crowley huff a laugh until he feels pinching fingertips touch too deep in his chest. “_Oh_,” he growls, pushing Aziraphale out and shivering as he leans down, hand tight in his hair. “Hah, okay, how… how do I explain this,” he pants.

“I’m sorry dear, I should—”

Crowley glares up at him, “None of that.”

“What does it feel like, when you touch?” Crowley takes a deep breath, licking his lips, and Aziraphale stills terribly. “No, I, I just need to get words for it so I can help you,” he rubs his face, realizing Aziraphale may be jumping to strange conclusions.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale toys with his curls, attempting to tamp down the blush and fluster. “Like… warm smoke, I guess?” he exhales deeply, and the demon rolls his wrist to encourage him. “It’s very… airy, until I press in a little, and… then, uhm, then you’re there, underneath it.”

Crowley clicks his tongue, eyes flicking to the floor. “Okay,” Crowley nods. “Try again?” he rests a hand over Aziraphale’s left hand, and gives him an encouraging smile. Aziraphale holds his hand out, just outside the cluster of black smoke, and pauses until Crowley squeezes his hand, _go on_. He reaches forward, and this time he pauses just as his hand gets enveloped in the smoke, because with Crowley’s hand on his, he can feel the _layers_. The smoke curls and coils around his fingers, recognizing him, a soft purr of _hello, old friend_, and he hadn’t ever paused long enough to notice that before. He presses his index finger forward, feeling the delicate, wet bubble of the outermost layer which he’s just thrust through each time before.

Crowley smiles up at him, “’s good, just a bit more.” Crowley’s hand gently guides his forward through the damp smoke and he feels… it’s cool, but it breathes, and it’s him, and he’s alive and he’s well. “There,” Crowley nods at him, and it’s hard to concentrate on _there_ and _here_, touching the demon with his hand on his, but also caressing an enormous, unknowable magical beast which is also so innately Crowley.

“You’re so good to me,” Aziraphale lets his fingers drag up the cool, scaled flesh of the second layer and Crowley closes his eyes and sighs.

“Let’s uh, let’s try it without my help,” he exhales softly, and slowly releases Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale pulls back and Crowley helplessly leans towards him as if he’s just withdrawn a hand caressing his cheek. They both chuckle softly as they notice it.

Aziraphale draws his hand up once more, gently tilting it this way and that in the swirling smoke. It’s not quite enough to know where he is or if he’s alright, but it’s pleasant nonetheless. He presses his hand through the wet bubble and rests his palm against iridescent scales. It’s not quite that, not really touching Crowley’s true form, but the visualization helps, lets him keep his touch here rather than digging deeper. He might grab and dig and nestle himself into Crowley’s innermost being if he didn’t hold himself back. It’s intoxicating just fingering this layer, smoke and wet coolly dripping around his wrist.

“’S enough,” Crowley chuckles, clasping Aziraphale’s real hand in his and bringing it to his lips, effectively distracting him.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale smiles wistfully at him, “I should really be better at these sorts of things.”

Crowley shakes his head, smiling, “You’re good at a lot of things, angel.”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale smiles fondly at him, not quite agreeing or disagreeing. “What does it feel like when you do it?”

“Oh,” Crowley flushes a little. “Uh,” he unconsciously reaches for the cable, and Aziraphale can’t help but smile at the unconscious check, the thumb brushing a shoulder. “Never actually thought about it,” he sniffs, quirking his head. Aziraphale starts a little as Crowley’s bony hand, not the real one of course, firmly clasps his upper arm as his eyes stare unseeing at Aziraphale’s knees.

“Brass,” he says softly. “Fire, it should hurt, but it’s nice,” his otherworldly thumb rubs up and down his collarbone, caressing inwards to his neck. “Steady and stable,” he smiles up at the angel, wistfully, “pluck you like a harp but it’s so…” He sniffs, smiling a little wetly. “It’s just you,” he chuckles, shrugging, and drawing his hand back.

“A harp?” Aziraphale squints at him.

“It’s… I dunno why,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “People’s lines always look like strings to me,” he gestures in front of him as if there’s a litter of strings there.

“Really?”

Crowley frowns up at him. “I…” he rubs the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. “It’s probably from… space and time,” he twitches his nose and shakes his head. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t make it, don’t go thinking I’m _that_,” he puts his hands out, quelling. “It was Cassiel’s idea, really, but he uh… he didn’t want to put it into motion. Was sure he’d screw it up,” he sighs, rubbing his face.

God had locked all the creators into a room, demanding that they solve whatever nagging problem was currently wrong with the universe. She loved the ideas, the concepts, the chasing of a thought from its beginning to its conclusion in an unrelated daydream. Implementation was just not something she cared for, not at all, and so there were angels, and then more angels, and then whole castes and choirs and the like. It’s just, at that point there were a lot of things and a lot of potential, but it just sat there, limp. They were planning and God was most definitely beginning to develop humanity by that point, secretly plucking up a characteristic here, a digestive acid there, but the problem was that there was something _missing_ and no one could figure out what the heaven it was.

Cassiel was somber, always reticent and quiet, but he had a tendency to be the one who would come forward at a perplexing point in a project, and tilt his head and offer something of such resounding significance that it would put everything suddenly into perspective. When you’re creating the universe, _from scratch_, this kind of thing changes you, the concept of mass and density suddenly infused into your very essence because _you_ created it, and there’s consequences in creation. So, when Cassiel spun out a beautiful, wobbling gyroscope of time and space, he did not finish it, he did not perfect it. He left it jerking, stuttering, and held it out, offering, “I think this might work.”

Crowley took it, and mindlessly corrected the fractures that Cassiel had purposefully built in, tilted the thing and held it aloft. In that pregnant moment, Crowley could have changed everything. The second the beautiful thing had entered his hand, he _knew_. He knew in much the same way that he sometimes knew today, mindlessly blessing or cursing a stone here or there, accidentally marking the space which Aziraphale would gasp up at with a glowing face, centuries later: _Oh, this place will be perfect for a bookshop!_

Before he’d even made the choice, he’d known, because the making of something like _time_ and _space_ affects you, even if you haven’t technically made it yet. He and Cassiel had held a look for a long moment as Crowley considered the choice he had already made. He could turn to the room full of a hundred or so beings just like them, sweep his arms out, call out _let’s make this together_ and share the burden. But Crowley’s much better at accepting an ounce of pain for himself if it means saving others from the barest brush of it.

He’d thrust the gyroscope into his chest, and he was the first being in all of existence to _feel_ his heartbeat, the blood rushing through his ears, and the aching, far out tremble of _tomorrow, the day after, the day after that_, _and on and on_, as well as _yesterday, the day before, the day before that_. Cassiel had helped, dripping with guilt that he hadn’t taken the burden this time, and he and all of the creators wandered the universe together, quietly patching the bugs, tucking dark matter here and there where things just didn’t work out quite the way they should've.

They’d already fallen at that moment, not literally, but the shared look had spoken volumes. _I know now, and so do you. Let’s get this over with, shall we?_ They didn’t mingle much with the other angels after that, flickering with shards of a terrifying deep-space dark. It didn’t help that God saw that the whole locking-them-in-a-room thing had worked, and so she started doing it more often, isolating them even more. _Figure this one out, see you in an indeterminate amount of time!_

“I just get flashes sometimes,” Crowley sighs, realizing the silence has drawn out. “And I can know where something’s going to happen, or if someone’s important long before I should,” he rubs the back of his neck.

“And what about Cassiel?” Aziraphale

“He’s gone,” Crowley rasps, hands digging through his loose braid.

“Oh,” Aziraphale reaches out, catching Crowley’s shoulder before he curls down fully into himself. “Oh, I’m sorry dear,” he curls his arm around the demon, and he’s so warm, so stable, so comforting.

“He’s not dead,” Crowley sniffs. “’Lost,’” he gestures. Every death and birth of an angel or demon is announced, bugled from the great speakers, and when Cassiel had succumbed, rending himself out of reality like a virtual particle, here, and then not, Crowley had known. He’d known it would happen, from the beginning. He’d known that Cassiel would fight to stay with this reality, wield guilt like a sword against the damp depths of existential desperation, but he would inevitably lose, and collapse inwards. When the bugle called, “_Demon: Cassiel. Status: Lost_.” it had made his heart seize, but in a way, it also made something ease. _The fight is over. He can rest_.

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale kisses his hair just above his ear. “You bless me with your presence every day, and I hope…” his voice quivers a little, “I only hope I return your favor in turn.” Crowley turns towards him, smile wavering.

“In spades,” Crowley chuckles, cupping his face.


	13. Chapter 13

Aziraphale lays the protections on Crowley’s flat as the morning turns to noon, sniffing around the front door as if the demon might have left some whiff that he could track him by. Crowley almost starts sniffling into talking about Rosier, but Aziraphale stops him.

“I need to get back and call Li—call my therapist,” he nods stiffly. “Perhaps we can have dinner tonight?”

“Sure, angel.” He still needs to flick a note to Leonard about probably staying back home for more than a week, besides.

* * *

They tuck in for dinner at a small, boutique sushi bar that’s popped up. It’s fine sushi, but perhaps a bit more expensive than it really deserves. It’s a short walk from there to Crowley’s flat, and they decide to indulge in the city air. It _is_ a bit of nice weather, briskly cool outside of the layers of clothes, but with Aziraphale’s arm tucked in his, it’s bracing. Crowley’s going to be sweating from here until kingdom come at this rate, unsure if he’ll ever get used to Aziraphale’s warmer temperatures.

As they walk into his flat, dark and dim, Crowley sighs deeply.

“It’s just… cold,” he sighs, rubbing his face as Aziraphale looks up at him concerned. “Like you said, a horrible cave,” Crowley gestures, tossing his glasses on the front table and toeing off his shoes.

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, feeling his way into what exactly Crowley is talking about. “Well, you could… renovate, you know,” he offers lamely, peering around the granite and silver kitchen. “A bit of wood would warm things up quite a bit.”

Crowley scoffs at that, walking past him to the couch.

“Whatever, I’ll deal with it,” he grumbles, rubbing his face again. “So, Rosier,” he sighs, and Aziraphale inhales sharply as he sits down next to the demon. “Alright?” Crowley glances at him, worried the angel’s sat on a pin or something.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale shakes his head, which just makes Crowley more interested, leaning forward and attempting to push Aziraphale forward off of the seat to check for offending pokey things. “No, no, I’m, it’s fine, just, what were you saying?”

“Oh, right,” Crowley stretches out, a taut black line on the dark gray couch, before springing back. “Rosier was human to start,” he gestures.

“Oh, I thought so,” Aziraphale squints and jerks his arm in a victorious jab, suggesting, _ooh, got one right_. 

“I don’t know what she wants,” he sighs, and then shakes his head. “Okay, I know what she wants, but I don’t know why she’s doing this, now.”

Aziraphale frowns at him. The demon looks cagey, eyes darting anywhere away from him and he’s ribbing his knuckles tightly around his upper arms.

“What does she want?” Aziraphale asks, leaning forward and gentling a hand on Crowley’s upper arm. Crowley’s sighs, closing his eyes and sliding down in his seat nearly a foot.

“Sex,” he grumbles, rubbing his face and looking away. “Gotta make sure I’m never in a room alone with her,” he shivers. “Locked me in a liquor cabinet one time, and uh,” he hugs himself, still determinedly looking away from the angel. “Never, never did anything, never got anywhere,” he gestures quickly, looking over at the angel who just looks pensive now to his surprise. “Yeah, just, _really_, intensely interested in that, and, uh,” he shudders a little.

“I suppose we’ll just have to ask,” Aziraphale looks up at him softly, and the honesty in his expression hurts a little.

“Are you sure it’s her?” Crowley’s leg wiggles a little, and Aziraphale smiles a little ruefully.

“Oh yes,” he nods, running his fingers up Crowley’s arm soothingly. “Her name just kept popping up all over the place. She’s throwing angelic _and_ demonic agents at you quite desperately, but your protections work quite well most of the time.”

“What if it’s Lucifer?” Crowley ask softly, eyes dull on the bonsai on his coffee table. It doesn’t wilt or quiver for what it’s worth.

“Would he get something out of… out of your coupling?” Aziraphale mutters out quickly, forcing down the sneer of protective anger.

“Fuck if I know,” Crowley grumbles, anxiety slowly easing as Aziraphale keeps gently rubbing circles into his shoulder.

“I… we should think about how we want to do this, Crowley,” he says softly, drawing his fingers under Crowley’s as they keep squeezing his upper arms.

“Can’t we just ignore it?” Crowley’s voice carries hidden tears though his face hides them, an intense scowl all that’s painted there.

“She’s going to keep trying, my dear,” he laces their fingers, and smiles softly up at him. “Better to head it off at the pass.” Crowley’s jaw audibly clicks at that, and he swallows thickly.

“I could… I could summon her, perhaps,” he rubs his thumb gently up and down the inner webbing of Crowley’s thumb. “And you might… wait upstairs. You wouldn’t have to be there at all, unless I called.”

“No,” Crowley growls, fingers finally engaging in the entwine with a harsh grip. “No, I’m not going to let you kill her and then just stuff it down again. _What_ was it about that hellhound that did that? Did it hurt you?” he’s leaning forward now, trembling with emotion.

“Uh,” Aziraphale starts, surprised at the sudden turn of the conversation and the raw intensity of Crowley’s full-blown snake eyes glaring at him. “Uh, well,” he shakes himself a little. “My, uhm, my hip and the like… were taken by a hellhound,” he gestures a little sadly at his hip and missing wing. “During the war, you know,” he nods as Crowley’s head draws back, and his eyes dart around the area with newfound comprehension.

“Right,” Crowley yanks Aziraphale’s hand forward, pulling him in close enough for a quick, raw kiss that makes Aziraphale a bit light headed. “I’ll deal with the hellhounds for you from now on,” he husks, staring intensely into his eyes and goodness, Aziraphale hasn’t thought about _having the vapors_ in perhaps a century at this point but it’s apt now.

“Well, uh, if, if the opportunity arises, my dear,” Aziraphale pants, rubbing his brow with his free hand. “Let’s, don’t you distract me, serpent,” he giggles a little tremulously, withdrawing his hand from Crowley’s and Crowley smirks, sitting back too.

“We can… we’ll figure out what she wants,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face and looking a little tired. “And we’ll make her a contract. Your traps can hold her for a long time, if she’s… unwilling,” he sniffs.

Aziraphale frowns as he thinks, but eventually he shrugs. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

Aziraphale looks away after a moment, humming. For the past six thousand years, he would have hidden these things, kept Crowley blissfully in the dark in the hopes that he might be safe there. It’s a little hard to break old habits. It feels a little unsteady, but they’re both embarking on this brand-new adventure _together_ this time.

“I think I’m going to have to help you buy that block of Soho,” Aziraphale exhales deeply, ducking Crowley’s curiosity. The demon recognizes the tick of his fingers though, looking for a glass of something, so he pops up to go get a drink.

“Don’t have any white wine,” he grunts, knowing that the angel would prefer something light and crisp after the fish.

“Red is fine, dear,” Aziraphale smiles fondly, though the demon can’t see him. He smiles wistfully as he listens to him dodder about, plucking up glasses and a bottle.

“Well, it’s not a matter of funds,” Crowley smirks a little, offering a glass to the angel. “What’s up?”

“They’re… the company that’s buying up the block,” he waves, and Crowley nods, settling next to him again. “They’ve invited me in to have a little… chat,” he smiles ferally at the demon, which just makes Crowley laugh dryly. Aziraphale could easily handle mob bosses, sharky businessmen and the like who were interested in his property. Crowley’s contract was simply a safety net, something that Aziraphale could pull out of a drawer after a prolonged rhetorical dispute began to bore him, ease the altercation from raised voices and potential violence to, “Oh, well, I do think you’re rather mistaken because it _does_ say right here...”

“I think you should join me when I go, so that we can get an idea of who we’re dealing with.”

“’Course, angel,” Crowley smiles fondly. “Just let me know when.”

“Monday, I believe,” he sniffs. “Sometime in the morning,” he squints, trying to remember.

Crowley nods. “Any idea what they’re up to?”

“I believe they’re interested in setting up a deal,” he smirks as Crowley rolls his eyes. “Curious if there’s anything they might be able to offer me that might make me give it up.”

Crowley pokes at his phone, squinting. “They seem human enough,” he shrugs, flipping through the glossy photos of the top sales managers and executives of Sunfield Real Estate. “Just stupid, I guess.”

Aziraphale chuckles, rubbing his cheek with the hand holding his wine glass, “Stupidity’s not a sin, Crowley.”

“Should be,” Crowley sniffs, not tucking his fond smile away very well.

There’s a lull then, Aziraphale just sipping his wine and enjoying the demon toying with his phone, allowing him his fill and maybe preening just a little under the attention.

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, interrupting the silence.

“Hm?” Crowley rumbles from his slow slide towards resting his head in the angel’s lap. Aziraphale’s lap is turned towards him, and his socked feet wiggle occasionally against his jean-clad thigh. Crowley’s planning to just stretch and maybe plop his head and shoulders down where the angel might toy with his curls. Crowley has his arm around the back of the couch, and he hasn’t quite begun to lean down horizontal, but he’s starting to.

“I’m supposed to tell you something,” Aziraphale turns towards him with a soft surprised smile, and Crowley goes from zero to sheer unadulterated panic in the span of, oh, about point-five nanoseconds. “No, no, it’s, it’s more of a question dear, calm down, you know you gave me quite a start when you said that too,” he gently jostles the demon’s shoulder as Crowley forces himself to take slow, deep breaths and come down from sheer terror and fight-or-flight panic.

“Y’ve got a questi’n?” Crowley rasps, rubbing his nose and peering at the angel with disgruntled curiosity, crashing hard post-adrenaline rush.

“Well…” Aziraphale sighs deeply. “Well, don’t take this wrong way,” he holds a finger out, pointing at the demon’s chest, “but you say you want to be… ‘ready,’ right?”

Crowley blinks slowly at him, skepticism creeping into his face. He blinks away after a moment, running a hand over his face.

“Yeah?” he offers softly to the bonsai still sitting on the coffee table unaffected. Quite a sturdy thing, this bonsai. Part of why Crowley felt it could stand living on his coffee table, and not tucked away from demonic emotional swells.

“Well, uh,” Aziraphale clears his throat softly. “I, hm,” he looks a little flustered, eyes scanning around the room, and Crowley blinks dolefully at him. “We’ve already shared so much, dear,” Aziraphale offers softly. “Sex is just about two people enjoying one another, finding pleasure. We have already _had_ sex several times by this point,” he swirls his wine, and _damn him_, he looks like an adorable amateur philosopher in his cups.

“Been reading your new books, hm?” Crowley swallows thickly, his voice still a soft low hum as he’s not feeling particularly up to his normal vim and vigor.

“I just don’t want you to pin too much meaning on something, Crowley. Don’t suffocate yourself over labels,” he swings his hand with the ring on it in a gesture and Crowley chuckles.

“What do you think I’m afraid of, then?” Crowley asks softly, sinking a little in his seat and staring at the ceiling.

“Well, I can’t read your mind,” Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“I’m asking for your opinion, Aziraphale. You’ve known me for _six thousand years_,” he gestures towards something incredibly large.

Aziraphale sips his wine, considering the demon from under his pale lashes. After a moment, he inhales deeply, and sets his empty glass aside. “You want it to be right,” he offers softly, “You’re worried if you do it wrong, I’ll leave.”

Crowley exhales deeply, whistling a little, and he shivers. “Wow,” he grins boyishly up at him, “you know me pretty well, eh?”

Aziraphale frowns, _oh, I got it wrong then_.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs, looking away from the demon. “My point stands. It honestly wouldn’t bother me if you didn’t come, so long as you enjoyed yourself,” and Crowley seizes up at that, jumping up and jittering away as if he’s been bitten.

_Oh, well. Got it in two, I suppose._

Crowley refills their glasses with shaking hands, and downs half of his as he stands and stares out the dark window to his tiny patio. The silence is taut, and he can feel Crowley pressing something in, holding something back with his entire weight against the door, thumping on the wall _stay in stay in I’m not dealing with this right now_. His leg jitters but he makes a lovely picture, a slim figure standing taut like a whip, all black with curls pouring down his shoulders and a wine glass in hand.

“I love you, dear, just the way you are. I’ll keep saying it until you believe me,” Aziraphale offers shyly as Crowley’s shoulder slump. He sniffs wetly, and his free hand rubs his face.

“Yeah, okay,” Crowley sniffs, voice raw and wet. His throat clicks as he swallows, and he downs the rest of his wine and readjusts his shoulders, making himself presentable again. “Maybe it’ll be better this time,” he turns around then, eyes full of desperation, pain, and anger at himself.

Aziraphale gives him the blessing of not asking what _this time_ means, because the demon looks so close to the edge of wrecked and he won’t be the one to push him over. He holds out a hand and gestures for the demon to draw closer, face calm and soothing. He’s a little tired tonight as well, the idea of winding up with Crowley between his legs would be pleasant, surely, but honestly, just sinking into bed with the demon wrapped around him, sleeping peacefully, gifting him with his relaxed brow and curls will be enough.

“Let’s just rest, hm?” Aziraphale hugs the thin creature to his chest, awkward with the added inches but still a familiar weight as he gently guides them to the demon’s bed. 

* * *

They wake up late on Friday morning, both a little dozy, dragging themselves up to greet the near-afternoon with slovenly grace. Aziraphale cabs to the shop, and Crowley starts digging in to find a cell phone that Aziraphale might actually use while walking around his own shop, watering and pruning as needs be. He loses track of time, leaning on one of his worktables and angrily barking Mandarin into his phone as he peers at cell phone listings on his laptop.

He stills as he hears a soft knock on the door to his shop. He snaps, “A second!” in Mandarin, unable to switch languages _that_ quickly, and ties up his dealings as he marches out to the shoddy front of his shop.

He tentatively pops open his door, and is utterly relieved to find that it’s just Kai, looking a little guiltily up at him.

“Oh, you, your hair,” she gawps. He’s been grumpy on the phone for the last few hours, so the loopy tail he’d tucked it into is long-gone and it’s just hanging loose around his shoulders.

“Ah, yeah,” Crowley pats at it shyly. She hadn’t caught him for the brief period he’d had it short, but it still has grown perhaps a bit more than expected in the time since she last saw him. “Changed my diet,” he gives her a toothy smile, and gestures for her to come in. 

“Wow,” she looks around, peering back at the room glowing with life and trails of vines and leaves.

Crowley sniffs a little, rocking his legs like a child as he sits on the desk he has set out for the front of shop. “What’s up?”

“Oh, uhm,” Kai starts back, reminded of her grim task. “I, uh, could you maybe… prepay next month?” she steps forward, leaning towards him and rocking on the balls of her feet.

Crowley squints at her, considering. “What happened?” he asks softly, although he’s already rooting around in his jacket for his checkbook.

“Ah, uhm,” Kai sighs, leaning back. “The mixer broke,” she offers quickly, rubbing her wrist, and Crowley’s pen pauses where he’s writing.

“That’s interesting,” he tilts his head, leaning back a little to observe her, “it was brand new last month.” Kai flushes deeply, looking ashamed.

“What’re they doing now, Kai?” he asks quietly, slitting his eyes at her.

“Um,” Kai sniffs, looking away. “M-my mum threw me out,” she whimpers, lip quivering, and Crowley inhales sharply, because there’s _something_ there that he can feel, something that’s not just random human cruelty in this. _Well, this whole real estate business just got a whole lot more interesting_.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” he asks softly, ripping the check off and handing it to her. She doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I have a friend who can help you find a shelter,” he offers softly, knowing that Aziraphale would have fliers and friends who would help her along. “You’ll make it through this,” he smiles softly at her, and she suddenly rushes forward, bruising him with a hug. 

* * *

They hadn’t really been planning on a big stately dinner that night, and it’s a good thing, because it’s canned soup and a lot of paperwork as they help Kai find her way into a shelter for the night. Once the sprightly friend of Aziraphale’s drives up in her Subaru, they all breathe a sigh of relief, Kai looking wrinkled by tears but just a little hopeful beneath it.

“That was a terrible blessing,” Aziraphale’s voice is even but low as he wipes his hands off, peering after the pair.

“Hm?” Crowley wrinkles his brow at the angel.

“That happened because someone _blessed_ her,” Aziraphale snarls it, and Crowley finally notes the angel’s motions. He’s trying to wipe off a sickly spell, skin prickling with the sensation of ill-will materialized.

“_May you be known in all your truth, even that unknown to yourself_,” Aziraphale recites, glowering and his hands sizzle and spark as he finally gives up on water and soap to cleanse them.

“I thought it smelled fishy,” Crowley nods. “They’re playing dirty. I mean, they have since the beginning but that’s sort of them showing their hand, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale nods grimly and cricks his neck. If Crowley were in a more vindictive mood, he might snark, _Still think Gabriel’s going to leave you alone, angel? _He doesn’t, though.

“Do you still want to do the summoning tomorrow?” Aziraphale turns, bracing himself on the wood countertop next to Crowley. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and _mmm_, Crowley just smiles and admires the handsome ripple of muscle there for a moment.

“Crowley please,” Aziraphale flushes, one of his hands worrying at his hair at the demon’s small, but obviously lecherous attention.

“Yeah, I think so,” Crowley offers quietly, relaxing from the tight spring he’d been holding himself in on the tall chair. “Can I stay over?” he asks softly, attempting nonchalance but the earnestness in his eyes is clear without his glasses on.

“I have been getting used to sleeping with you, dear,” Aziraphale smiles fondly, taking Crowley’s hand in his and kissing the thin knuckles.

* * *

It should feel like leaden dread, the howling angst of _waiting, _but it doesn’t. They both just feel a little extra peppy, as if they’ve been spiked with a bit of caffeine and not the anxious weight of, _we’re summoning a prince of hell today!_

The dim dungeon beneath the vault is a little dimmer now without the five devil’s traps. There’s just one, spinning on the floor, and it’s a bit smaller now so that Crowley doesn’t have to shimmy around the edges of the room for fear of getting snagged. In the past two evenings, they’ve chattered deep into the night about Aziraphale’s research. There was a story, a single, rare telling which made it all the more compelling for its rarity. An angel captured in an… angel’s trap, or a devil’s trap flipped on its head, the sort of thing that should be utterly impossible and improbable. But Aziraphale had peered at the runes and considered the positioning of the candles, and _hmm_, isn’t that interesting? It had given him the idea to add a second trap, sunk about a foot into the ground hidden beneath the first, which Crowley would power. If a human could hold an angel, well then, surely a demon, by some description, could hold another demon?

Crowley kneels and licks a blade of his magic down, linking to it, and jerks as it connects, drawing from his core. Sure as anything, it’s working, and the room dims more as Crowley’s dark magic devil’s trap mingles with Aziraphale’s glittering white one. Runes and devil’s traps aren’t really his schtick, usually, so it feels like easing into a stiff pair of new leather shoes, too tight, pinching here and there, but he can feel Aziraphale’s anxious but steady handiwork, the hum of love beneath it all. He’ll put up with the blisters on his feet.

He plucks up the fold-up chair that he’s dragged in from somewhere, and shakes it out, sitting backwards on it.

“Posturing already?” Aziraphale chuckles. “What, will we be good demon, bad angel?”

Crowley rubs his face, hiding his fondness. “Something like that,” he manages, voice a bit thick.

Crowley can track people, sometimes even objects although objects are a bit harder. He doesn’t like leaning into it too much because it’s too deep, too personal; it’s hard for him to pull back and have his barriers up when he does it. Still, he’s decided that he’ll put a finger to Rosier’s pulse, just to ensure that they don’t scoop her up while she’s in a meeting with Beelzebub or Lucifer or someone else who might sound the alarm that she’s gone.

If he had not met Rosier before, had not touched her physically, he wouldn’t even try. It would be too hard to hone in on anything, especially with her being in an entire other plane of reality. He squints, head hurting already as he feels the twinges of Hell around her, but he pushes and pulls before finally raising his index finger and delicately bringing it down to the dull rope cord that appears to be her. He clenches his other fist as he makes contact, lip curling with hot waves of revulsion until Aziraphale delicately begins massaging his shoulders.

“Easy, dear,” he whispers, and Crowley can breathe, and he can concentrate now. Rosier feels lightly electric, like a sparkler or static electricity, bright and sparky, and he can tell when she’s around others because the lights are on then, flashing sporadically. When she pulls away for a second, a brief breather between meetings, it dims, and she feels like the aching, scarred flesh of a human thing holding more power than she can maintain, and she feels so damn _tired_. Crowley sniffs grumpily because he hadn’t really been intending to feel _empathy_ for the damn thing, but here we are.

He can feel the weird stuttery nature of time in Hell, oddly extending and retracting, and it’s been something like thirty minutes to an hour of no sparks, so he picks his head up from where he’s been leaning it in his hand, and swallows against his cottonmouth.

“Now.”

His ears hurt as the air pressure suddenly fluctuates wildly, and then there’s a soft pop and Rosier appears in front of them. Aziraphale’s been kind enough to bring along the office chair she’s been sitting in, an old leather thing that’s cracking with age, because of course he did.

“YOU!” she snaps to her feet, picking up her chair and lobbing it at Aziraphale with incredible force. It pops out of existence for a moment, pausing in its flightpath before popping back in to reality, twirling next to the angel who puts out a hand to still it.

Aziraphale is horrifying and gorgeous to behold. If Crowley were not already in love with the damn angel, he’d fall in love all over again to see him right now. He looks to almost be made of marble, but carved by a sculptor who can turn marble into cloth and soft, supple flesh. He has his face gently tucked away from Rosier with a smile so small and so damn _pleased_ with her misbehavior, it’s maddening, and one might be excused for missing the scepter in his left hand, wafting lavender light and heavenly intent. It should sting Crowley to look at, but he feels its soft, curious regard as its consciousness brushes past him, and he just chuckles softly. _And you accused me of posturing_.

“Hello, Otama,” Crowley drawls, and Rosier snaps her attention to him, livid, and launches herself at him, hissing and jerking back as her flesh burns on the edges of the traps.

“’S bit unfair of me, I know,” he sniffs, grinning loosely. “Ya can throw a Crawley at me, if ya like.”

Rosier roars in frustration, but rears back and points at him hissing but all she gets out is a sibilant _Jh_ before she pales and retches, blood pouring from her mouth. Crowley and all other fallen angels had the same reaction in attempting to say their names from before. It was kind of where the new names came from, necessity and all that. It was strange, though, because a human or an angel might say, “What happened to so-and-so?” and they would come out fine. Were the demon in the room with them, the old name would burn and hiss on the tongue, a small gift of the Fall to the speaker as well as a heated implication, _that was my name you just tried to say and yea, I am damned_.

Aziraphale clicks his tongue, dropping the scepter’s end to the floor which causes it to gong out like a holy bell, and he begins pacing around the room.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners, child?” he sniffs, walking past her.

Crowley waves his hand as Aziraphale’s back turns to both of them in his pacing, popping in a small shot glass of something milky and white to heal her mouth. It won’t do to interrogate someone who can’t speak, after all. She glowers at him as he mimes knocking it back, twice, but as Aziraphale turns around and begins his stubborn, insistent litany of question, she nabs it from the air and downs it in one go, gritting her teeth against the unpleasantness of the drink.

Aziraphale takes the lead in this, softly and insistently repeating questions with pregnant pauses and perked brows, awaiting a response which he does not receive. _Why did you lay traps at the Dowlings estate? Why have you been sending demonic and angelic agents after Crowley? What purpose is there in attacking us here and now?_

Rosier sits in the middle of the trap, specifically looking away from Aziraphale and his scepter, although he keeps stubbornly walking directly into her line of sight and asking her the same exact questions. He usually puts so much effort into appearing human that it’s strange to see him now. He’s so still so as to appear as a statue, unbreathing and unblinking, his entire, horrifyingly intense angelic attention focused on the demon sitting sullenly in his trap. He paces, using his scepter like a walking stick, and the scepter is the sort of the thing that would be mortifying to see in Gabriel or Michael’s hand, enforcing truth, crushing wills, the sort of thing that might cause a person to go bibbly, gibbering and broken with no scrap of self left after all of their innards were turned outwards with no place to hide. In Aziraphale’s firm grip, it shines and glowers down from the ivory tower, _you don’t want to lie to me right now, do you?_

After an hour of questioning, Rosier begins thrashing herself on the bars of the cage. It should hurt both Aziraphale and Crowley, as she _is_ a being of power, just wielding the title of Prince is a hearty jolt of power, and she was plenty before that. However, cross-linking the traps has another unforeseen benefit of evening the energy draw and allowing them to not even flinch as she sizzles at the runes. If they were each to try to hold a demon like Rosier individually, they could maybe hold it comfortably for about a day each, tremoring as day seven or eight rolls around. With their traps entwined, they could probably hold her for a few weeks without tiring enough to let her break through. Neither of them is planning to let it draw out that long, though.

She bloodies herself on the runes, laughing a little hysterically at the bones poking out of her elbows and her mangled hands before dashing herself at Crowley one more time. She keeps honing in on him of the two of them, until Aziraphale stalks in front Crowley gonging the scepter and drawing her gaze away for a bit. For his part, Crowley just sits backwards in his chair, mouth and chin hidden behind his arms as he focuses on the spells and _listens_ to ensure that she’s not performing any magic that might sneak under the devil’s traps, or that someone is not suddenly reaching out, curious at her absence.

Crowley absent-mindedly miracles her healing draughts a few times as she begins to dull, body going sluggish with blood loss, but she sneers and tosses it back at him each time. After the fourth one, Aziraphale stoops down to her height where she’s kneeling and panting, staring at Crowley intently.

“I’m not sure how good your Latin is,” he offers coolly, silver eyes locking her in place, “but perhaps you should consider this phrasing right here.” He points towards one of the flanges near the outer-ring, and it helpfully glitters around a few of the sigils, showing exactly what he’s speaking about. Crowley’s glad his mouth is currently muffled in his elbow because it hides his soft incredulous laugh. Not only had Aziraphale destroyed the warlocks so effectively that their own family members couldn’t remember their names or birthdates, he’d also taken their notes. Rosier pales as she reads it, realizing that even a discorporation won’t save her, it’s built to hold _her_, body and soul, right here until such time as the trap lets her go.

Aziraphale gives her an unkind smile at that, and flicks a large wooden bucket over her head which dumps the draught over her making her stutter up and squawk. He doesn’t begin in on his questions for a spell, pacing around the dungeon as Rosier’s gaze follows _him_ contemptuously, no longer so solely and completely intent on Crowley.

She gets dizzy at some point, and sits pointed so that she can easily see Crowley but also watch Aziraphale pace and Aziraphale begins his litany again, insistent and cool.

“What do you feel is the manner of your relationship with Crowley?” Aziraphale asks for perhaps the tenth time, and this time Rosier shifts, leaning towards Crowley so that her blonde ringlets drizzle seductively down her shoulder.

“He’s _mine_,” she coos, attempting to lock eyes with Crowley but his eyes are still listlessly staring off somewhere three feet to her left. “Luci promised me, he’s _mine, he’s mine_,” she crawls towards him, moving too fast and jerkily before hissing as she hits the bars again.

Crowley’s paying attention, and he’s listening, really, but he’s also focusing on maintaining a spell that he’s not all that familiar with, keeping an ear out for any unusual magical signatures, feeling around to ensure that no one, human or otherwise, is attempting to enter the shop, among his other, more banal attention fractures like keeping himself small and ensuring his eyes remain at least a little human. It takes him a few minutes before what she’s said registers, and his eyes tick over to her, finally meeting her chocolatey brown ones with his own. Her eyes are uncomfortable to meet, not just because of his past experience with the demon, but her beast was that of a chimpanzee, and seeing the dark, intelligent eyes socketed in a human face tends to make anyone wince a little.

Crowley sniffs, finally withdrawing his mouth from his sleeve and stretches back.

“So, there’s a contract,” Crowley glances at Aziraphale who looks displeased, but pensive.

“Uh,” Rosier jerks, eyes darting between them. She jumps up, tremoring a little. “H-he wants you back,” she stammers, “he wants you as a Throne.” She looks terrified, and she might keep babbling in an attempt to keep them from digging into contracts, but Crowley quirks an eyebrow at her, and she clams up.

It would be easy to assume that _throne_ was a title, that perhaps Lucifer just wanted Crowley back down in his court, but with Crowley, it’s not. After the fall, Crowley had sprung out of the sulfur pits, aching and blazing in pain like all of his brethren, but he’d shaken it off and proved himself capable, tearing squabbling siblings apart and sizzling healing into shattered wings without much thought about how it might appear to someone from the outside. Lucifer had grinned down in comprehension, _ah, we can use this one_.

And so, Crowley found himself coiled as the throne of the Morningstar, a magnificent draconic behemoth which Lucifer could bring to attention with a snap. Between the throne of scales and Beelzebub as guard dog, Lucifer’s rule was unimpeachable. Crowley very quickly grew tired of the position. He gifted Lucifer with a true throne befitting of his role, a blistering echo of heaven: ivory and gold, and even more immensely large than Crowley himself. It was a poor replacement for him, all told, but it was also the final crack in a series of _do this, **and** there will be consequences_. Refusing to mold himself into an angelic seat for the Morningstar was his resignation letter. But demons don’t _resign_, they die.

So, he did.

He slunk away and molded himself into something else, something small and slithering under foot which would not garner attention, something that earned him the name _Crawley_ which was so far begone from _Behemoth _that he was sure he’d gotten away with it. But then, a memo arrived demanding he drop in for the fitting of a proper human corporation. He’d be going up top, and he’d need all the proper bits and bobs to get along on earth because he had a job to do. Lucifer teased and tried to make it sound like it was just a quick temptation, just pop up and make some trouble, but well, he _knew_ it wasn’t because he recognized the lust for power latent in Lucifer’s eyes, biting back _you will make this for me and you will do anything I ask_ and attempting to snare Crowley with freedom. _You wanted this right? If I give this to you, you’ll come back to me. That’s the deal._

Crowley drums his fingers on the back of the chair for a moment, thinking as Aziraphale gently twiddles the scepter in his hand. As Crowley draws himself up, preparing to leave, Aziraphale delicately places the scepter away and gives Rosier an unkind smile, “Now, don’t you go anywhere.”

* * *

It’s blustering and snowing hard as they drive to the subway entrance. Crowley can’t really handle jerking them around with magic _and_ everything else he’s currently got his hands on, so they’re using the easier route this time. The entrance to Limbo here is a small janitor’s closet, unusually popular but also bespelled enough that anyone who frowned at it would shake their head and continue on their way.

Crowley and Aziraphale are the most familiar with this way into Limbo, and it’s quite easy to find their way into the courts and up to the office of one Micaiah Rahman, a notary and general legal sort that Crowley has turned to for help honing a contract or two throughout the ages. He may have been human once, but he's quite an old soul to still be so bright and lucid. He’d been a demon for a spell, but eventually tired of the rat race and slunk over to Limbo, complaining that if he had to write one more bloody contract consigning a soul to hell, he’d scream. There’s only so many ways to write that, after all, and he was interested in doing a bit more with himself, honestly.

“So, what brings you two to a _legal counsel_ of all things?” Micaiah grins up at them from behind his small round glasses which make his eyes appear moleish.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale delicately closes the door behind them, shedding his great coat in a rush because it’s far too hot in here for him. Crowley loosely strolls past him and plunks himself in one of the plum colored chairs across from the oak desk.

“Can you look up a contract for us?” he asks, and a small expression, perhaps a confused frown, flicks quickly over Micaiah’s face. It’s not every day that a soul gets asked to be the witness and co-signer on a marriage license between an angel and a demon, and perhaps he had been hoping a little too much that today might be such a day.

“Sure,” he nods brusquely, pulling out his keyboard tray and tapping his logins in. The large picture windows behind Micaiah show the grim London storm they’d just stalked out of because it’s what they would expect, the sleet pelting audibly against the panes.

“What am I looking up?” Micaiah offers, smiling softly at the pair.

“Something concerning the demon Rosier, and Lucifer,” Aziraphale coughs a little, still attempting to work himself out of the icy, marble act that he’s been in for most of the afternoon.

“And me,” Crowley adds, gently taking Aziraphale’s hand from where it’s leaning off the edge of the arm of the chair, and rubbing a little softness back into him.

“Ah,” Micaiah sniffs, eyes darting over the fond gesture, and the, _are those wedding bands?_ Crowley’s still wearing his on his right hand, but accompanied by Aziraphale’s similarly symbolic ring, it’s rather telling, isn’t it? He quickly shakes his head and returns to the task at hand. He frowns as he finds the offending contract nearly immediately. There’s plenty of contracts relating to Rosier and Lucifer, but only one very telling one which includes Crowley.

“Well, there’s one, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

Crowley chuckles softly, but gestures for him to read it.

“Give me a second, it’s, it’s quite old so I’m going to have to translate it a bit… pff, the phrasing we were using back then,” he grumbles, squinting at the screen.

“’I, Lucifer, bequeath the title of Prince unto thine,’ meaning Rosier,” he gestures a little and they both nod. “’Upon the consummation of mine throne, Crowley.’” Micaiah glances up at the two of them, and Crowley stills.

“Oh,” he offers softly, suddenly deaf for the rushing of blood in his ears.

“But… but she’s a Prince, now,” Aziraphale squints, finger raised. Micaiah glances between them and Crowley rubs his face.

“I didn’t ‘consummate,’” he jitters angrily at the word, gesturing quote marks jerkily.

“Hm,” Micaiah squints, and pulls up something else on another screen, typing madly. Crowley keeps rubbing his face and grumbling softly until Aziraphale gently begins rubbing his shoulder.

“Well, this is interesting,” Micaiah smirks, leaning his head on a palm and looking delighted. Discovering fractures in contracts that might ruin people’s entire livelihoods is a bit of a high for him, perhaps a little remnant of his demonic past. “She authorized her own Princehood, too,” he smirks over at Crowley who laughs bleakly. “She stated that she had already received the promotion and just quietly shunted it out the door, tricky-tricky,” he wags a finger, grinning. “You’ve brought me a fun one, you have.”

“Uhm, so, what, how do we… break the contract? It’s not good, right?” Aziraphale’s still doodling circles on Crowley’s shoulder, the demon looking a little limp as he leans into it.

“Of course,” Micaiah scoffs. “It’s never been fulfilled, you can tell,” he gestures, and Crowley quirks a brow at him. “You know how a contract feels when it’s been completed, Crowley,” Micaiah gestures, ribbing at him, and it’s true. This one still holds the airiness of _potential_, something unrealized in it even as it’s been crimped shut by Rosier’s pushed through authorization.

“S’pose so,” Crowley rubs his nose and resettles himself in his chair.

“Well, we’ll have to bring her in and take a statement, notarize a new contract,” Micaiah sighs, flipping through Rosier’s calendar bleakly. “She’s been very hard to get a hold of lately, it looks like,” he chews his lip, but pauses as both Crowley and Aziraphale freeze and look guiltily at each other.

“I, uhm, I can go get her,” Aziraphale smiles softly, collecting his coat, and Micaiah’s eyes dart between them rapidly as the angel departs. Crowley shrugs widely, hiding his grin behind a hand.

“Well,” Micaiah offers softly.

“She tried to kill me, on accident I’m sure, now that I see this,” he gestures sharply at the computer monitors. “Aziraphale didn’t take it well,” he wiggles his nose and Micaiah barks a laugh, but before he can start in on a deeper conversation about that, Aziraphale blusters back in, snowflakes still melting on his coat as he bustles in with Rosier, a white lasso tied around her wrists as she looks absolutely mutinous.

“Ah, you’ll uh, you’ll need to hand her off to our security for this,” Micaiah adds quickly, eying the blonde demon cautiously.

Aziraphale quirks a brow, but makes a show of letting her elbow go and stepping back. “So that you’re not compelling her to say something, you see,” Micaiah rolls his wrist while he buzzes his intercom, and a burly soul steps in wearing a security uniform. He peers over Rosier who hisses at him, but he just clamps two deep gray handcuffs over her wrists which sink and mold around like putty. Aziraphale waves off the white rope and gives Micaiah a prim smile.

“The gang’s all here,” Aziraphale sniffs, jittering a little, unable to sit or turn his back to the demon who he’d still much rather just kill, honestly.

“Well, Lucifer should be here as well, but he’ll _definitely _be too busy,” Micaiah waves, “it’ll pass over his desk in a day or so and he’ll just sign it, it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Crowley croaks around his dry throat, the skin on the back of his neck prickling oddly. He’s not entirely surprised when the door slams open again, nearly crumpling the security soul into the wall, and Lucifer steps in, stooping low to get under the doorframe.

“I’m not too late, I hope,” Lucifer smiles silkily, eyes ticking over the current inhabitants of the room. He’s not quite so tall at the moment, but he still looms above everyone else in the room, wearing a crisp pale pink suit with his curly hair trimmed close to the skull like a Roman emperor. He’s even wearing a crown of laurels, bronze, which glitters and accents the halo which he never lost. It shivers and it glimmers, and it’s far harder than any angelic halo in existence, but it’s enough that he’s been mistaken for an angel many a time. He should look ridiculous, a foreign businessman playing dress up, but he has the gravitas to pull it off and he just oozes power and dominance.

“I’ll take it from here,” he grins witheringly at the security soul, and places a too-large palm over Rosier’s shoulder.

“Right,” Micaiah sniffs tightly, and pulls a weathered parchment from the ether into his hand. “There’s not really any proper form for this, so I’m just going to have to write one up as we go,” he gives the parties assembled a wan smile. “We’re here about dissolving a title due to an unfulfilled contract,” Micaiah manages not to stare pointedly at either Rosier or Lucifer, professionally pausing on each person in the room. Lucifer’s smile goes taut and Crowley jumps out of his seat as he takes a few steps to the side so that he’s not vulnerably sitting in front of him with his back turned.

“I hold in my hand a contract in which you, Lucifer, decreed that Rosier would earn the title of Prince upon consummation with Crowley,” he sniffs a little, and the glower he gives Lucifer would wilt a weaker man.

“May I see it?” Lucifer offers a palm out, taking a step forward towards the desk and Crowley finds himself mindlessly stepping back so that he’s nearly behind the desk, desperate to have more space between the two of them. “Just want to make sure it’s one of mine, y’know,” his smile dazzles, but his eyes flick almost imperceptibly towards Crowley’s quivering escape before returning to Micaiah, “they have a stamp with my signature, and sometimes well, you know how it is.” He looks down at Rosier with an unkind smile at that, hand closing tighter around her shoulder and it’s a miracle that the keen of fear that wants to escape from Crowley’s throat doesn’t. He’s been on the receiving end of that smile and he knows exactly what that means.

Micaiah almost doesn’t hand it over for a moment, eyes hard, but he eventually relents. Lucifer makes a show of slowly perusing the aged parchment, tilting his head this way and that. Then, he gives a slight nod, handing it back.

“May we continue?” Micaiah asks stiffly, plucking the parchment back up.

“Of course,” Lucifer simpers, stepping back.

Micaiah sniffs, pulling some more paperwork from the ether, and flittering through it. “On December 4th, 1716, Rosier filed and authorized her own ascension to Prince.” Rosier makes a soft noise at that, but Lucifer quells her with a raised brow.

“With all parties currently assembled, may I have a statement regarding the fulfillment of contract number 24865?” Micaiah’s gaze sweeps over them all, even Aziraphale who has become almost as ignored as the wallpaper against the far wall away from Crowley. There’s a general nod of ascent, so Micaiah shakes a new parchment out, drawing up a quill.

“Crowley, were the measures of the contract fulfilled?” Micaiah looks up at Crowley who is so terribly still, eyes locked in place on the carpet, terrified and feeling like he’s watching this happen to someone else.

“No,” he offers softly, throat clicking audibly as he swallows.

Rosier starts up at that, “No? NO? How can you say th—” There’s an audible crack of something breaking as Lucifer’s hand tightens again, and the color completely drains out of her face and she shudders back, helplessly held up by his hand and nothing else now.

“Perhaps you and I need to have a little chat about consent,” Lucifer leans down over her, and his smile is lethal, the human teeth he’d been mimicking falling away and revealing his sharp fangs, “and honoring truth under oath.” Crowley’s knees start wobbling at that, and he masks the scared squeak he emits as a cough. He leans a black clawed hand against the desk to keep himself from collapsing on the floor.

“Rosier,” Micaiah keeps his eyes primly on the parchment away from the drama unfolding in front of him. “Were the measures of the contract fulfilled?” he sneers a little, baiting her into lying under oath just to see her writhe under the spells embedded into the firmament here which demand obeisance.

Her eyes are dull as she stares at the parchment Micaiah’s penning, and Crowley notes Lucifer’s overlarge thumb drawing soft curls into her broken shoulder, soothing and paining at the same time and his jaw clicks as he grits his teeth.

“No,” Rosier growls, and she rears back, wincing and hissing as the title of Prince is ripped away from her, right then and there. Lucifer could have been kind enough to let her hold it until later, strip her of her power in the privacy of his own torture room. He’s always loved an audience, though.

“Well,” Micaiah sighs, shaking his head a little at the show. “I do so witness that this contract is null and void, and that the demon Rosier is no longer titled Prince,” he flicks his hand as his signature sizzles into the parchment.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he locks eyes with Lucifer, one dominant soul to another.

Lucifer inhales deeply, and turns towards Crowley with a winning smile. Crowley starts up at that, taking another step back so that he _is_ behind the desk, near Micaiah and leaning his legs against it with his black clawed hands clasped behind his back. The finger currently wearing Aziraphale’s ring is clawed in gold, smearing up his hand and under his sleeve, and if he were aware of it, he would be horrified and would be stuffing it behind his back anyway.

“Crowley, darling,” Lucifer smiles, and Crowley obediently looks up at Lucifer, glasses disappearing, because there had been consequences for not looking Lucifer in the eye when he talked to you, even if all he wanted to do was cry, or scream, or run away.

“No, no you do not get to talk to him,” Aziraphale snarls, stomping in between Lucifer and Crowley and it’s all he can do not to shunt out his wings to further shield Crowley from the King of Hell. “If you want to speak with him, you will do so through me,” his voice booms, completely unintentionally as he squares his shoulders and the air is taut with electricity as Lucifer tilts his head and _regards_ Aziraphale with intense interest.

“Raphael,” Lucifer breathes in amazement, eyes flicking up and down the angel. “How funny to meet you here, brother,” he grits his fangs in a smile which Aziraphale glowers at. “We were all so sure that you had fallen.”

“Not so far as you,” Aziraphale growls, and Lucifer _chuckles, _and thank goodness Micaiah is next to Crowley to catch him as his legs give out and he nearly flumps face first onto the desk.

“Well,” Lucifer smirks, “please tell Crowley that he is always welcome in my court.” He tries to tick his eyes back to Crowley at that, but Aziraphale forcefully keeps himself in front of Lucifer’s gaze, swaying to the left and right to keep himself between them. But then, Lucifer snakes forward suddenly, crooning directly into Aziraphale’s ear, “And so are you, Raphael.”

“Lucifer,” Crowley croaks, vibrating, and he’s not really sure how it’s happened with his legs not working, but he’s suddenly directly behind Aziraphale, hand about to clasp around Aziraphale’s shoulder to draw him back away from the creature that he knows will destroy him, and everything else that he loves, should he not step in and prostrate himself.

The entire room will probably go up in smoke, air now laden with the magicks of _three_ incredibly powerful occult and celestial entities, all muscling up and hackling for a fight. There’s a loud crack, and the magic sucks out of the room suddenly as Micaiah clears his throat, brandishing the gavel he’s just clacked against his desk. “Gentlecreatures,” he sniffs. “Need I remind you that you are currently on neutral ground? If there is nothing else that I can help you with, then I must ask you to take your leave. I have forty cases to review, two lectures to prepare, and five other consultations within the next _hour._”

“My apologies,” Lucifer retreats, smirking quietly to himself. “Hell is all the worse without you Micaiah,” he simpers, and bows deeply, dragging Rosier into a pained, gasping bow as well.

“M’lord,” Micaiah cants his head, and Lucifer sweeps out of the room finally, leaving just Aziraphale, Crowley and a very bewildered security soul.

“We’re gonna die,” Crowley whimpers, clutching onto Aziraphale’s waistcoat as his knees give again and he crashes to the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks unbidden. “We’re gon’ die,” he repeats, over and over as Aziraphale takes a shaky breath and shrugs his shoulders, rolling away his tension at the entire encounter.

“Ah, uh,” Aziraphale gives Micaiah an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, good soul, uhm, we’ll, we’ll be on our way,” he turns around with some trouble, the demon still clutching at his clothes, and starts to try to pick up the quivering thing.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Micaiah waves dismissively, “you’re staying here until he can stand again.” He points meaningfully at the demon clinging and plucking at his clothes.

Micaiah rustles through a cupboard above his desk, and Aziraphale manages to pick up Crowley finally as he coils into a ball clutching Aziraphale’s shoulders and still gasping about their imminent death. There’s a soft flicking noise as Micaiah lights a cigar, considering the pair. Aziraphale looks pale and quivery as well, but he’s putting on a brave face as he sinks into the chair Crowley had sat in originally, holding the demon in his arms. One of his second pair of arms crops up, soothingly drawing through Crowley’s hair and the chanting stops, replaced by a particularly loud sob as he curls up tighter in Aziraphale’s lap.

If Micaiah knew Aziraphale better, he might try to make some conversation, try to bolster the two of them. But he doesn’t, so he simply gives a curt nod to the security soul, allowing them their leave, and mouths at his cigar as he sits back down.

“I’m terribly sorry about all this,” Aziraphale manages a faint smile, looking tremulous.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve had to watch a demon have a nervous breakdown after Lucifer left the room, angel,” Micaiah exhales a circle of smoke and Aziraphale starts to hear the title ‘angel’ tossed out so carelessly, not a gentle, loving endearment. “He has that effect on people.”

“Right, yes,” Aziraphale nods stiffly. “I suppose he always was a bit of a prick, even before,” he sniffs primly and Crowley bubbles a laugh in his lap, easing just a little. He takes a few long, deep breaths, coming back to reality with some difficulty.

“Micaiah,” Crowley rasps, and the soul peers at him. “G-got ‘nuther contr’ct,” he sniffs, delicately picking his way out of Aziraphale’s lap and jerkily falling into Aziraphale’s chair. He rapidly coils the angel’s discarded coat around his shoulders.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale quirks his head in confusion at the demon who’s slunk into a beige coat-covered ball in the chair.

“Gabriel ‘n Beez-Bee-Beelz,” he grits and shakes his head, frustrated.

“Crowley, I really don’t think now is the time,” Aziraphale whines, desperation creeping into his voice and eyes but Crowley is adamantly not looking at him. “I can’t, not right now!” he starts up from his chair and Micaiah looks up at him dolefully.

“Let me take a look,” Micaiah sniffs, biting his cigar to one side of his mouth and typing again.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale growls, quivering where he’s standing, but the demon just keeps pointedly looking away from him.

“Principality, sit,” Micaiah drawls, smirking at his screen. “This one’s easy, just paperwork,” he plucks his cigar from his lips and gives Aziraphale a fortifying smile, “Bit pedestrian, really. They should know better.”

“Mnn,” Crowley coughs a little. “Tell ‘im. Ssssso ‘e, ‘e, won’t—” he shakes himself, flustered with how terribly his brain is working, struggling to string together words and syllables coherently.

“Ah,” Micaiah nods. “Flouting god’s commandments is… well, it’s something that every demon knows how to get around. Some of the first things we cover, in the training,” he gives Aziraphale a slightly unkind smile. “Happens enough, though, that we have a simple carbon-copy form for it, null and void without anyone even having to get up from their desks. You’ll get a missive in the mail confirming it’s been done, but there’ll be no trouble. Angels and demons cannot force anyone to fall, no matter how much they might like to,” he sneers, just a little, but he points it at the floor and not at Aziraphale this time.

“I see,” Aziraphale exhales deeply, falling back into the chair.

* * *

Neither of them really remembers getting up and leaving Limbo, but it must have happened because they’re lumbering back into the bookshop, looking gray and drained.

Aziraphale walks to the back of the bookshop, ready to plunk into his armchair and just, well, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do but he needs to sit. Crowley maneuvers himself so that he sits down in the chair first, dragging Aziraphale into his lap. He’s still wearing Aziraphale’s great coat, and his now-beige arms encircle the angel. Aziraphale is very still for a long time with Crowley draped around him, the horror and fear still taut in both of their minds. Twice, he tries to get up, and run away from Crowley, _no no you can’t see me like this_.

Crowley just grumbles, tugging him back down and stubbornly jabbing his sharp chin into Aziraphale’s shoulder, arms holding him even tighter. It feels like it’s the only thing holding him together, and Aziraphale cracks, curling up in his lap and sobbing. Crowley pets his hair and doesn’t let him go, draped and wrapped around him so securely, _mine mine mine_, drilling through his head.

Sometime in the late afternoon, the phone rings. They both sit still and incomprehensive for the first two rings.

“Crowley, I should—” Aziraphale hiccoughs after trying to get up out of Crowley’s lap and having the demon just hold him tighter. Crowley grumpily waves a hand and one of Aziraphale’s phones finds itself in front of them on the coffee table.

“Uh, h-hello, A.Z. Fell and Co., how, how may I assist you?” Aziraphale stutters.

“Aziraphale, I’m so glad I caught you,” Michael’s voice is punctuated with warm musical notes, as it always is.

“Ah, h-hello Michael,” Aziraphale coughs, and takes a deep breath, composing himself. Crowley hisses possessively in Aziraphale’s unoccupied ear.

“I don’t have much time,” Michael sniffs, and Aziraphale can hear the loud slam of a door closing somewhere far away on his side and Aziraphale rolls his eyes, pinching his nose. _Sneaking calls in the stairwell again, lovely._ “I just heard something and I knew I had to tell you.”

“I see,” Aziraphale sighs stiffly.

“I’ve heard…” Michael simpers, “that the demon Crowley is no longer in London! He’s gone off to America.” Michael draws the receiver close, causing his voice to blow out too loudly.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale sighs, shoulders drooping. “Thank you, Michael,” he pats Crowley’s hand around his waist, smirking to himself.

“Uh,” Michael puts a hand over the receiver, someone passing him by. “I just, I thought you’d like to know, since you two uhm,” he bites his lip.

“Yes, yes, I’ve got it in hand. Was there anything else you needed?”

Michael takes a deep inhale, either about to hang up and run off as Gabriel or someone’s stumbled on him, or steeling himself to say something, and Aziraphale perks up in interest. “Gabriel’s doing annual reviews,” he whispers quietly, sibilants catching oddly in the receiver. “He’ll probably be in the area.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale sighs, sinking back into Crowley, feeling tired and worn out. “I’m not really on the payroll anymore, so I don’t think I’ll be on his to-do list,” he rubs his face and Crowley lightly kisses his curls, making him smile.

“Hmm,” Michael simpers, and he hears Michael whisper a quick greeting at someone passing by.

“Well, give Dagon my well-wishes,” Aziraphale’s ruthless grin cracks in his cheeks as he hears Michael suck in air at that. “I’m afraid I need to get back to running the shop.”

“O-of course,” Michael stammers. “Keep well, Aziraphale.”

“And you, Michael.”

Crowley chuckles softly, nuzzling Aziraphale’s neck as he leans forward to hang up the phone.

“Well?” Crowley’s voice is clicky and low, and if they had not had the day that they’ve had it would make Aziraphale rev up and flush. He just smiles fondly and sinks back into the demon, hand reaching up to caress into his locks.

“Did you know you’re not in London anymore?” Aziraphale grins up at him and Crowley laughs beautifully.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows for a moment. “Will… will Leopold be okay?” he squints and Crowley laughs some more.

“Leonard,” Crowley corrects, kissing his nose and smiling still. “He’ll be fine, he’s slammed the door in Beelzebub’s face before, didn’t get a scratch.”

Aziraphale’s brows shoot up at that, “Well. Certainly not like my vampires then.”

Crowley cackles, something taut in his chest finally loosening.

“Also, Gabriel’s doing annual reviews,” Aziraphale sighs. “But I doubt that’ll affect me this year.”

“I’ll be here,” Crowley sniffs sleepily, settling into the crook of his shoulder again.

“We should eat something,” Aziraphale takes advantage of Crowley’s sleepy distraction and pops out of his grasp.

“Mmm,” Crowley rubs his eye and yawns widely, looking ruffled and adorable draped in Aziraphale’s coat. “Not really hungry,” he squints after another large yawn.

“No,” Aziraphale sighs, hand on hip, and Crowley wakes up a little more just to enjoy Aziraphale’s sassiness. “We are going out and we are eating far too much sugar, and then we are coming home and we are going to bed and, and,” Aziraphale huffs. “We’re sleeping in and doing absolutely nothing tomorrow,” he glowers imperiously at the demon who chuckles softly.

“Okay,” Crowley offers weakly, rubbing his hair out of his face.

“Well, come on, up, you’re wearing my coat,” Aziraphale grumbles and Crowley heaves a dramatic sigh, but he’s smiling beneath his curtain of curls. He pushes himself out of the armchair and pulls off the coat, delicately helping Aziraphale put it on.

“You have a place picked out, or are we just winging it?” Crowley yawns, stretching wide, and Aziraphale startles him by grabbing him by the belt and kissing him.

“Let’s go visit that patisserie on the edge of town, come on,” he smirks conspiratorially, flushing up at the demon who just blinks slowly down at him.

* * *

“I’m not hungry,” Crowley grumbles at the frankly enormous sundae Aziraphale’s ordered for him. There are no bananas in it, and Aziraphale has squandered one or two miracles ensuring that there are zero bananas or banana flavored dishes on the premises today.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale has chocolate icing on his chin, but he still manages to look imperious as he tosses his head and glowers at him.

“Angel?” Crowley sighs, obligingly picking up his spoon and toying with the fudge sauce.

“Perhaps you haven’t noticed,” he sniffs, dabbing at his cheek and completely missing the curl of frosting on his chin, making Crowley bite back a smile. “But when you don’t eat, it-it doesn’t do you any good.”

“Mmm,” Crowley sighs, leaning his head on his palm and finally pointing at the angel’s chin since he keeps daubing at his face, looking for the spot he can feel but can’t seem to find. “I’m a demon,” he sniffs, eying the waitress who hustles by, but she’s too busy to hear him. “Don’t need to eat.”

Aziraphale glowers at him as he nips off another hearty bite of chocolate cake. “When you don’t eat enough, you, you go very still, and quiet, and,” he huffs, and sets his fork aside. “Stop toying with it and just eat it already!”

Crowley chuckles behind his hand, but makes a show of pulling out a large spoonful of ice cream with fudge sauce and depositing it into his mouth. He almost manages to hide his surprise at how good it tastes, textures smooth and inoffensive.

Aziraphale looks entirely too pleased with himself at that, and Crowley has to hide his face for the blush that spills forth.

They both eat several servings of desserts, and giggle and titter on the sugar high as they drive home.

* * *

As they both tuck in after their respective bathing rituals, Crowley rubs his scaled feet looking pensive.

“Something on your mind?” Aziraphale asks, wiggling to get better situated under the covers.

“You need a new mattress, angel,” Crowley sniffs, and cracks his back, fingers soft as he feels over the diamond of scales on his lower back, oddly tender today.

“O-oh?” Aziraphale pauses, glancing around the bed where he’s still slowly sinking and will continue to sink for the next few hours. He has yet sink to the bottom, but he doesn’t stay in the bed for longer than four hours usually.

“I get that you like old things, but if I’m going to be sleeping here, you need something that’s actually supportive,” he cracks his back audibly, and his hand returns to worry at his lower back, grimacing.

“Uh, well, you know, I have been noticing that it, uh, has a lot of give,” he rubs his nose, resettling himself and trying to puff more of the padding under him again. “Would you like me to look at that?”

Crowley looks up at him confused, fingers still working over his spine, “Huh?” 

“Your back,” Aziraphale motions to where the demon’s still kneading.

“Oh,” Crowley looks back at his hand as if he hadn’t realized he was doing it. “Just stiff with the cold,” he shrugs, “If you want.”

Aziraphale lurches out of bed, grumbling at the hole that he has to pull himself out of. He lays a palm to the mattress and _pushes_, but falls face first as his magic firmly steps up and states, _Hm, nope, not today bud, we’re flat out of the stuff_.

“Angel,” Crowley chuckles affectionately. “Here, here,” he hefts Aziraphale up with one hand and lays his other over the angel’s. “Again?”

They’re both frayed and tired, and Aziraphale looks humiliated beneath his flush, but with their fingers linked they manage to make the mattress just a little firmer, enough for the night at least.

“T-thank you,” Aziraphale huffs, determinedly not meeting Crowley’s eyes as the demon stretches his hand out, wincing. Crowley shouts as Aziraphale suddenly grabs him by the waist and flips him so that he’s bent over the bed. He gently pushes Crowley’s shirt over his shoulders, leaning hard into his hips and pressing his weight into him.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, and there’s something small and terrified there that makes Aziraphale start back in horror.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he breathes, shaking himself. “Oh, today has _not_ been a good day,” he rucks his hand back through his curls.

“You can say that again,” Crowley stretches forward a little, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off and wiggling to splay out over the quilts. “Sorry, just surprised me,” he peeks over his shoulder at Aziraphale, who just looks back at him bleakly. He rolls his eyes and makes a come-hither motion with his finger, “Come on, come on, I’m sorry.”

“_Why_ do you put up with me,” Aziraphale huffs, stepping up to inspect the scales on his back. He gently runs his fingers over them, thumbing the hard ridges of his spine which makes Crowley hiss. “This patch is so sensitive,” he squints, laying a hot palm to the center of it and Crowley sighs in pleasure.

“Yeh,” Crowley sniffs. “Just, just go up the spine a bit, it, _ah_, it should help,” he tenses as Aziraphale begins pinching his thumbs up the edges of his spine from the flesh just above the scales. Aziraphale quirks his head as he starts kneading out, generalizing the massage, finding the other tension points and releasing them. He’s a healer, and he’s healed Crowley so many times that he should recognize the scars and the scales, but he hasn’t had the chance to really work at his back much. He’d first noticed the odd diamond of scales that didn’t really ripple or change like the other spans when he’d been horrified to realize the bullet holes didn’t go all the way through to the other side, and he had to figure out how he was going to extract bullets from a demon without killing him with holy magic.

“You broke your back,” he states, softly knuckling into the scales as Crowley sinks into the quilts, sighing happily.

“Mm,” Crowley hums.

“Long time ago, I’m guessing?” he kneads his fists into Crowley’s shoulders hard, and Crowley hisses, back arching up.

“Easy, easy, that’s, fukckk,” he growls as his wings shunt out, black but not as enormous as they could be.

“Ah, sorry,” Aziraphale sighs tiredly, dropping his forehead between the demon’s wings and finally flopping his weight down entirely, too tired and upset with himself to keep standing. His wings, just the two, unfurl out too as he lays there.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale sighs tiredly, and they both shiver as their sensitive wings tense and try to relax against each other.

“G’off,” Crowley husks, wiggling ineffectually. Aziraphale rears up with some difficulty, tossing himself into Crowley’s wing before it shudders back with a loud hiss from the demon.

“I’m too much, I know,” Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his face as he lies on his back with his wings tucked close away from the demon.

“Shut it,” Crowley hisses, cracking himself up to sit cross-legged next to the angel. “Do you _ever_ preen, angel, cripes,” Crowley glowers at the offending wing as it slowly, tensely, relaxes into his lap. He quirks an eyebrow at the angel, asking for permission, and Aziraphale tiredly nods, so Crowley gently pets the primaries currently available to him.

“When you have six pairs, it becomes quite a chore.” Aziraphale sighs softly as Crowley delicately runs his fingers down the coverts, picking out stray bits of down and dirt.

“S’pose you do that once a century, too?” Crowley grumbles, smirking as Aziraphale gasps and flushes at his palm drawing near to the inner coverts.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale bites his lip, flushing.

“Angels,” Crowley tosses his head, not hiding his fond grin at all. “C’mon, up,” he gestures, and Aziraphale carts himself upright, turning his back to the demon. Aziraphale jumps and gasps in surprise as Crowley softly whispers directly into his ear, “Just the two, or shall I help with the rest?”

“U-uh,” Aziraphale’s face is burning bright red as Crowley’s fingers softly resort and nip the primaries of his right wing now. “T-this is fine, for now,” Aziraphale whimpers. It’s so intensely vulnerable, having his wings fondled with love and care, and he’s a quivering mess, completely unaware that Crowley is drawing it out, fingers softly resorting coverts again and again just to listen to the noises he’s making.

“You’re lovely,” he husks, pulling the angel back into his lap and coiling his legs and arms around him, his own wings, a bit more like their true selves, curl around them, ensconcing them in darkness.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpers, his wings popping away as the demon hugs him close enough that there’s not really room for them anymore.

“Mine,” Crowley hisses, fingers caressing his chest and throat, and Aziraphale gulps down another whimper. “_He can’t have you_,” he growls softly as his teeth graze Aziraphale’s ear and Aziraphale’s hand grips the thin thigh wrapped around his waist as he whines, arching back into the demon.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpers. “Uhm, I,” he pants, eyes blurred as he stares at his wall, and Crowley lays a hot, wet kiss to his neck with teeth, dull but present. “Crowley!” he shunts himself out of the demon’s lap, quivering and flushed.

It’s worse seeing Crowley, actually, and he puts a hand to his mouth to try and stifle the hot groan at seeing Crowley flushed, shadowed by dark wings and _wanting_ him so clearly. It’s like a dream-come-true but it’s so lividly wanton and he’d never strayed that far before, even in his daydreams.

“Yes?” Crowley grins, his voice dark and possessive still. “C’mere angel, I don’t bite,” he bares his fangs, sneering, _unless you want me to._

“Oh, I,” Aziraphale swoons, and Crowley starts forward, concerned.

“Woah, woah, sorry,” Crowley catches his cheek. He’s still flushed but the dark coiling lust has receded.

Aziraphale sighs, and he looks so bloody tired that Crowley laughs softly. “Oh angel, c’mon let’s just sleep,” he brushes the curls away from his face and kisses his forehead. With a huff and a grunt, he manages to get his wings stuffed away, breathing a little heavily.

“Got a lot done today,” he pants with a grin, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

* * *

Crowley snores through almost the entire Sunday, waking as the sun begins to dim on the horizon and blinkering downstairs. He stares stupidly at the mattress propped up by the stairs for a moment.

“I still haven’t gotten your phone,” he grumbles, rubbing his face and looking cranky with himself.

Aziraphale chuckles, taking off his reading glasses. “I was beginning to wonder,” he smirks, even though he honestly hadn’t been.

“’Course you want something so bloody old that it’ll take me a year to find a functioning one,” Crowley stumbles forward and collapses on the couch, curling his head and shoulders into the angel’s lap.

“Only a year?” Aziraphale smiles, fingers brushing through the demon’s hair, “I’m losing my touch.” Crowley scoffs, curling tighter into his lap.

“Y’feeling better?” Crowley whispers after a moment, eyes soft as he doodles on Aziraphale’s knees.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale smiles, “Much.”

“Y’want to see my shop?” Crowley peers up at the angel, a faint line of worry on his brows.

“Of course, my dear.”

* * *

Crowley’s still clingy, hardly letting Aziraphale have use of both of his hands as he keeps insisting that he let him hold one. Another good reason to have an extra pair, he supposes, as he locks the bookshop up.

“Is it… is it still so dark?” Aziraphale quivers as the demon leads him up to the door.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Well, eh, the front? But pffuh,” he finally releases Aziraphale’s hand to unlock his door and pulls it open, gesturing him inside.

The front is a bit dark, but not as bad as that day he’d stumbled in, terrified the serpent was drowned in a dish tray of holy water.

“Oh my,” he breathes, stepping forward with his jaw dropping at the soft light of the back. He makes a soft noise which causes Crowley to rush forward in worry, horrified at the tears on the angel’s face.

“Uh, are, angel, are you okay?” Crowley quivers, but Aziraphale gently pushes his hands away as he steps into the back.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his cheeks, and looking around in wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

Crowley leans against the doorway to the back, crossing his arms, “If you call it my very own Eden, I’m kicking you out before you can put in the protections.”

Aziraphale bubbles a laugh, honking his nose into a handkerchief. “I forgot I said that last time, honestly,” he chuckles, smiling fondly at the glowing, healthy plants, Crowley’s care and love making them burst forth and sing. “I wasn’t thinking,” he coughs.

Crowley chuckles a little, shaking his head.

“Why… why don’t you just move in here, dear?” Aziraphale peers over at him, and Crowley bites his lip.

“There’s no bed. And I’d have to rezone it _again_, ugh,” he grumpily rubs his face, looking away from the angel. Aziraphale frowns at him, but shakes himself, peering around for the right places for the runes he’ll want to put up.

“I… I think I want to be by the ocean again,” Crowley offers softly as Aziraphale draws a glittering sigil near one of the windows.

“Well, thankfully we’re on an island, dear,” Aziraphale chuckles, “We’re already near the ocean.” Crowley rolls his eyes, pushing his hair back.

“Ah, ah, not there,” Crowley starts forward as Aziraphale starts drawing something into the area with the prior door.

“It’s… it’s a bit weak here, though,” Aziraphale touches the wall, frowning.

“Gonna put in a thing there,” Crowley frowns, fingers brushing the brickwork. Aziraphale quirks a brow at him and he looks away, but continues, “Link it to my home or something.”

“Oh, oh that would be quite useful, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale nods earnestly. “Well, why don’t you put it in and I’ll lay some protections atop it, hm?”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a pinched look. “You’re not moving _tomorrow_, dear, it’ll probably make you feel better to be able to see your plants on a whim.”

Crowley sighs, but rolls up his sleeves and cracks his neck, considering the not-door with his eyes fuzzed out.

“Can you…” he grumbles, rubbing his face. “Can you ground me again?” he asks quietly, glowering away from the angel, intensely embarrassed at just _asking_.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale smiles, and gently places his hands over the demon’s shoulders, bolstering.

Aziraphale gasps as Crowley closes his eyes and leans into the wall, sinking his arms in, almost falling but for Aziraphale’s grasp on his shoulders. It’s quick, far quicker than Aziraphale would’ve imagined, and it stings like the cold of deep space as Crowley squints at Elsewhere, considering the space lingering between here and his Mayfair flat and just… drags one clawed hand across the ether, raking a brilliant trail connecting here to there, as easy as could be. Crowley falls back, breath a little ragged as he considers the new doorway that he’s put in.

“T-thanks,” Crowley huffs, rubbing sweat off of his brow, and starting as he notices his golden claw. He turns back to Aziraphale, and brandishes the hand with a soft smile. It still looks like his claws, not the princely gauntlet of Aziraphale’s, but it smears up his arm, beneath his sleeve, and if he were to investigate, would culminate in a gold corona swirling around his heart.

“How interesting,” Aziraphale touches the gold on his forearm, smiling softly. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s left hand, pulling just a little and making the angel giggle at the ticklish sensation. His hand is strong, completely black but swirling with his human-marble tones in his palm, one long black claw on his ring finger. The black, which ribbons with red and not the greens and purples of the scales, freckles up his arm and also runs up beneath his sleeve.

“S’pose we should wear ‘em on our pointer fingers or something,” Crowley wiggles his right ring finger, sticking out his tongue adorably.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chuckles. “Come on, let me put up a few more things there,” he gestures at the doorway Crowley’s just generated.

* * *

Crowley putters around _his_ shop, for once, while Aziraphale sits back in one of his plush, square armchairs and enjoys the slight humidity of the plants, the quivering of leaves (not in fear this time), and the sight of Crowley prowling around in a place that’s so firmly his, fingers possessively trailing around corners and thumbing at smudges, occasionally flicking a soft, claiming smirk at the angel.

They depart separately, Aziraphale going to install his new mattress and Crowley nattering on his phone with potential buyers of his plants and sellers of antique mobile devices.

Crowley doesn’t get a ton of sleep, but Monday morning rolls around relentlessly anyway. He pulls up the Bentley bright and early for them to head off to Sunfield Real Estate. The office is located, awkwardly, in an old paper mill near the river. It somehow manages to feel too perfect, too clean on the inside in spite of the grit and grime outside.

Crowley has dressed like Aziraphale’s shark lawyer in a sharp black A-line skirt, tight black blazer and white blouse, unbuttoned enough to expose the lovely swell of his breasts and the barest hint of his dark bra straps. His lips are painted a dark crimson which makes his already theatric expressions even more so and Aziraphale’s honestly just glad that Crowley hasn’t pointed his wiles at him in that outfit because he _will not_ be able to help himself. Crowley just skulks and lounges away from him with his normal slightly dimmed roguish air.

He saunters up to the secretary at the front desk, a small mousey woman in a similar outfit to him but not nearly as weaponized, and smiles unkindly. “Ezra Fell and company,” his voice is soft and husky, feminine with just a little effort of raising his octaves. “I believe we have an appointment at ten.”

The poor secretary blushes desperately, forgetting herself as she stares up at Crowley’s fashionable wrap-arounds and breathless smile. Aziraphale steps up and gently pulls the sign-in sheet forward, drawing his signature into the appropriate line and allowing the secretary a second to compose herself as Crowley draws his attention away from her and down to him.

“Uhm,” the secretary gulps, “someone will be right out.” She nods determinedly, typing into her screen and blinking hard to keep from returning her gaze to Crowley. “Have a seat,” she gives Aziraphale a polite smile, gesturing towards the brilliantly white sofas with a sharp glass table between them.

Aziraphale tugs the demon away from where he’s patiently watching the secretary sweat and type into her computer, trembling with the urge to turn back to him and drool. They settle into the sofa, next to each other but not unseemly, just two humans who happen to be professionally together. Aziraphale has dressed up just a little as well, a beige hat and a cravat replacing his normal bowtie, but he knows that all of the attention today will likely be going to the demon, even though he’s hardly even trying. To him, it’s just clothes and makeup, a slight change in the way he carries himself, nothing more.

It’s the first time in a bit that Aziraphale has found himself thinking what Crowley always whined at him, _you’re going to be the death of me_. He’s had the feeling before, certainly, but Crowley’s been a bit doured since the apocalypse. Still stunning, but he rarely stepped up in something so terribly fashionable and grinned ferally as all eyes in the room helplessly turned to him.

Crowley relaxes back, twining his ankles together as he stretches and Aziraphale has to seriously resist rolling his eyes at the incredible, screaming energy of _God help me I’m so gay NO NO I’M NOT I’m straight I’m straight I’m—_pouring out of the poor secretary as her soft blue eyes keep darting over the demon. He’s seriously considering wasting a miracle on some coming out and lgbt-friendly literature materializing in her small flat, but he’d rather learn a little bit more about the proprietors before getting himself entangled like that.

It’s turning out to be a bit longer than a moment, and Crowley gets bored of staring at the ceiling. He plucks up one of the real estate magazines on the glass table, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of the printing ink, but he slowly flips through the glossy pages as Aziraphale checks his pocket watch. It’s 10:30, and the secretary checks in two other appointments who get picked up and bundled off to their destinations while Crowley jiggles his leg and Aziraphale peruses his notebook.

As 10:45 rolls around, Crowley stretches again and Aziraphale grumbles, giving in and feathering the secretary’s flat with _it’s okay to be gay_ as her heart sings at the way Crowley’s shirt dips and reveals the edges of his lacy bra. _Mine_, Aziraphale glowers a little, and the secretary finds herself suddenly with an overlarge privacy screen which is blocking her view of the demon.

Crowley huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he smirks and turns the screen into a small document-holder which she’ll notice much less. He stands up and walks towards the front desk, smoothing the wrinkles of _wait what the hell? _away as he leans against her desk.

“Could you point me towards the ladies’ room?” Crowley asks softly, and his shirt has buttoned up to the neck, but he’s still a sight to behold. The secretary can breathe and not feel faint as he peers down at her now though.

“D-down the hall, to the right,” she manages softly, pointing and gulping as she darts her eyes guiltily at Aziraphale a few times, not entirely sure why she’s guilty or why she should feel bad about pining for Aziraphale’s lawyer in his presence.

Crowley lopes away, and both the angel and the secretary’s eyes linger after the demon until the door opens and another appointment rushes in.

Aziraphale keeps going over his notes, squinting at the names of the men and women in management here at Sunfield, considering their webs of connections and once more trying to discern the relation. He’s supposed to be meeting a Matthew Saffir today, about forty-five minutes ago actually. He had been expecting to just have a tense discussion regarding his definitely-not selling the bookshop while Crowley grinned and sneered, desperate to have the leash clipped off so that he could go rabid on the poor soul. But instead, it looks like they’re being stood-up, asked to stop in but then left out to dry for an hour in the waiting room.

Aziraphale sighs, rubbing his brow as another person strolls in and is led off nearly immediately, but then his notebook flies out of his hand as he gasps, sensing Crowley _tempting_ somewhere within twenty-feet of him.

For a rather silly period of time, Aziraphale had assumed that Crowley was tempting him constantly and _that_ was why he was so attracted to him. He’d waved the thought off after a time, when Crowley had done something selfless like healing his twisted ankle or sending him a letter with a bottle of ink that he’d mentioned liking in passing. His opinion had shifted, deciding that demons were just tempting by nature. Even if he grimaced at Hastur and Ligur, there was something in the potential of them. A little of the, _come closer, I could give you anything that you desire_ which was blended into their makeup. Maybe because Crowley had held the apple out, committed the original temptation, it made him special, made that whisper stronger?

He’d just gotten used to it, presuming Crowley was just the most tempting thing in the universe, just always had it turned on, and maybe didn’t realize it, until one night in a bar in the 1920s. He’d strolled in with a gaggle of silly young men, another attempt at the gentleman’s club but they were all students just looking for a fun night out drinking, no gavotte and no polari. Crowley had his hair short, bobbed and curled, wearing shimmering beads and tiny oval glasses as he sang something which Aziraphale did not hear at all. His voice was beautiful on its own, he knew that from hearing him sing softly to himself in rivers as he washed up thinking he was alone, or offering it like a soothing draught to a sick child. This was something else though, Crowley was _Tempting_ with a capital T, pointing it all at a woman at a table near the front in a top hat and suit who was entirely wrapped around his finger and he was somehow more gorgeous and poised and perfect then than he’d ever been in the past 6,000 years. Aziraphale had sat, pinned and quivering with his mouth open throughout the entire set, heaving a relieved sigh as Crowley finally turned it off and blew a kiss at the woman, fluttering his lashes coyly.

He never knew _why_ Crowley had tempted that woman in that bar that night. He hadn’t seen the demon for another twenty years or so, and then he finally had to deal with the fact that, oh no, oh _dear_, these feelings were all entirely his own and not anything that the demon had stirred up or pushed into him without his permission. It had been a horrible relief, but it had also been pretty horrible, to boot.

The secretary eyes him worriedly as he dabs at his brow, suddenly sweating and gasping a little. Crowley strolls back in, not Tempting just sauntering and plunking down next to the angel with a thin briefcase that he sets down at his feet, giving Aziraphale a tiny, pleased smile.

The phone at the secretary’s desk rings, as it has several times in the last hour, and she picks it up and has a confused conversation with someone. Once she hangs up, she frowns at her desk, eyes darting between Aziraphale and Crowley.

“Mr. Fell?” she calls, and Aziraphale looks up from his notes. He pushes himself up from the couch, Crowley demurely following behind him. “Uhm, I’m afraid we’re going to have to reschedule,” she says, pointedly not looking at Crowley. “Mr. Saffir has uhm,” she swallows thickly, looking a little pale, “he’s in the hospital.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods. “Well,” he quirks his head, unsure what exactly would be the correct next step in this situation.

“We’ll give you a call,” she simpers at him, her blue eyes darting past them to the handful of people who’ve just arrived for their 11:30’s.

* * *

“So, it’s Uriel,” Crowley gestures as Aziraphale digs through the briefcase he’s tempted from its proper location.

“Appears so,” Aziraphale sighs, considering the glittering signature on the document currently in his hand, fluttering from the wind blowing in the window of the Bentley.

Crowley frowns, thinking hard. He’d been fully expecting this to be a set-up of Gabriel’s, and having to slot Uriel into the equation is taking some deep thought. He hadn’t really hung out with archangels before all this, and he knew of Uriel’s name, but not much more than that.

“Crowley, can you please pull over? I don’t want to lose these,” Aziraphale huffs jerking forward as the papers in the briefcase rustle in his lap at another damp blustering breeze. The demon obligingly pulls into a parking spot near a park, the engine guttering as he considers the paperwork spread cross the angel’s lap.

“She’s trying to set up an art museum, it appears,” Aziraphale squints at the document currently in his hand, and Crowley shrugs.

“Why there?” he sniffs grumpily, and Aziraphale sighs shaking his head.

“Perhaps Gabriel’s pushing her to do something, I don’t know,” Aziraphale sighs. “May I see your phone, dear?” Crowley pulls out his cell phone from a clutch he’s stuffed in the map pocket of the door and hands it over without really thinking about it.

Aziraphale flicks through the security screen, not really considering that he’d need a specific code or anything to get into it and then thumbs the phone icon, calling Uriel’s number without even dialing it.

“Angel?” Crowley frowns, incredulous. “I thought you needed an old phone,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes as Aziraphale puts up a finger to shush him, tilting his head and listening to the phone ring.

“Hello?” Uriel sounds a bit breathless as she answers, and Aziraphale is aware of the sound of a whimpering man in the background.

“Uriel, hello,” Aziraphale smiles. “I was wondering if you and I could have a little chat, face to face. And, maybe, maybe you could leave that poor man alone, hm?”

Uriel gulps audibly, and there’s a long pause. “Aziraphale,” she breathes. “Where?”

* * *

“You’re getting a smart phone now, I hope you realize that,” Crowley grumbles, as he pulls them up to a small sandwich shop not a block away from the subway entrance to Heaven and Hell.

“Well, I suppose any phone you give me will have a little preternatural intelligence,” Aziraphale waves and Crowley drops his face into his palms, groaning. He can’t writhe in agony at the angel’s compliments disguised as willful misinterpretations for long, though. He needs to lay down appropriate protections. The sandwich shop is run by a collective of the fae, and honestly, it’s already probably protected enough, but he won’t feel secure until he lays down his own pieces.

He would have liked to change into something a little less violently, pointedly feminine if he was going to be standing against an archangel. High heels are tricky to fight in, and archangels rarely looked at a bit of cleavage and went _yowza sign me up _the same way he could make humans do. He’ll just have to make due.

He grits a smile at the elderly elf who toddles out to watch him draw more protections around the shop, gently explaining his purpose and assuring her that he’ll take them off the second Uriel leaves.

“You could leave them,” she sniffs with a brittle voice. “Haven’t had a good set of charms like that in ages.”

“S-sure,” Crowley blushes at the compliment but blinks away from her hard, gritting his teeth, _gotta concentrate right now, thanks_.

Aziraphale orders as he waits: a muffin and a large cup of hot cocoa for himself, a small cup of green tea for his expected companion. He remains calm as the demon stands at his shoulder in a security guard stance, legs shoulder-width apart with his hands clasped behind his back as he scans the horizon.

“She’s here,” Crowley states, canting his head very slightly to the left at her approach.

Uriel looks a little harried as she slams the door of her brilliantly white Ferrari, worriedly checking her appearance in her side mirror and then peering at the sandwich shop with confusion until she latches onto Crowley looking pointedly out at the street, still dressed in his sharp lawyer outfit. She gulps, squaring her shoulders and stalking up to the table that Aziraphale is sitting at. He smiles warmly at her as she settles in, considering the frail teacup in front of her with a frown.

Crowley turns so that his back is to the table, allowing them their privacy while very clearly signaling _I am here and I will step in if necessary._

“Aziraphale,” Uriel tilts her head towards him, and Aziraphale quirks a brow at her. She’d been deferential to him for a while, even after he’d been demoted a few times, but in the past few millennia of Gabriel taking more and more power, the respect has withered away. It’s mostly fear in her deference now.

“Uriel,” Aziraphale smiles, sipping his cocoa and quirking an eyebrow at her tea. She starts and toys with the cup a little, unsure what really to do with it. “I understand you’re interested in setting up an art gallery.”

“Uhm,” Uriel glances up at Crowley who still hasn’t moved, eyes scanning the horizon for other potential threats. “Yes,” she nods. “Gabriel wishes us to take more of an interest in human affairs,” she holds Aziraphale’s eyes boldly, though her eyes draw away as she notes Crowley’s soft huff of laughter at that.

“Y’can just say he wants to push Aziraphale out,” Crowley offers over his shoulder, still not looking at either of them.

Uriel looks a little flustered at that, brushing a few gold flakes off of her cheeks as they’ve apparently start itching.

“The demon is right,” she grumbles, looking away from Aziraphale.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs deeply. “I understand that,” he gives her an unkind smile, “but build your art museum elsewhere.” He glowers at her, and Uriel starts. “I’d also suggest that you stop beating up mortals. Not a good look on an archangel.”

Uriel’s eyes dart between the two of them, and she gulps. “H-how did you do it?” she asks softly, staring pointedly between Aziraphale and the demon and raising her brows suggestively. She could be asking _how did you get a demon to work for you? _Or, more likely, _how did you survive hellfire? _

She looks scared and stressed behind her false bravado, and Aziraphale sighs. Uriel was salvageable, he knew, a potential good soul, just hanging out with the wrong crowd. She’d done fine before Gabriel had been deeply rooted in power, and at the times she’d been able to draw away from him, she’d flourished.

Aziraphale just smiles sadly at her. “I hope I’ve made myself clear,” he offers his hand across the table as he stands, and she shakes it unthinkingly, starting as she feels the coil of a contract encasing their clasped hands.

“Right,” she nods, attempting to bite back the completion of the contract he’s just engaged. “Right, I won’t. I won’t build there,” she grits.

“I could make a few suggestions of better locations in London even, if you’d like,” he smiles, sitting back. “Though I think you’d like someplace a bit quieter, really,” he nods softly to himself and Uriel looks stung by the fact that he knows her well enough to posit that.

“Sure,” she bites out, looking sour, and the waiter pulls up to drop off a receipt. “He’s… he’s not going to let it go,” she whispers softly, hiding her lips with a hand and leaning forward like she’s going to sip at her tea but she just toys with the cup again.

“I know,” Aziraphale smiles kindly, enclosing a card in the little wallet and signing the receipt. He passes the wallet back to Crowley who pushes it into the chest of the nearest waiter without even looking, eyes still scanning the horizon and keeping Aziraphale and Uriel solidly in his periphery.

She considers them, looking a little hunted, perhaps even a little hungry, as if she wants something like this, like safety, like having someone stand at her back protecting her.

* * *

They head back to Crowley’s flat after that. It’s closer than the bookshop and his flat is fine, still a bit cold and gray, but it feels much better with his plants so close by again. He’s still going to have to move, but he could probably put it off a few more months with this.

He changes into pants and socks instead of heels, but remains in the blouse and lipstick, flipping through his phone as Aziraphale keeps flittering through Uriel’s paperwork.

“Oh,” Crowley sniffs, flipping through a couple of different models of large, but classic-appearing smart phones. “Did you book a cottage? I completely forgot this time,” he rubs his cheek, and Aziraphale sighs as he notes how tired he looks.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale pauses, looking away for a second. “The one we were in last time is taken,” he grumbles, angrily drumming his fingers on the countertop. “Yes, I’ve got one. Just a little further away,” he nods.

“What d’ya think of this one?” Crowley tilts his phone towards the angel, showing him an older iPhone.

“Hm,” Aziraphale squints, and frowns at the demon.

“You brought this on yourself,” Crowley smirks. “Use my phone like a bloody natural, and you want a frickin’ brick? Angel, please,” he shakes his head. Aziraphale flicks through the listing Crowley’s been perusing, frowning a little.

“This one,” he points at an older android phone with a tan case.

“You can get a tartan case on any of ‘em, that’s not specific,” Crowley waves, and Aziraphale looks surprised, quirking his head at the screen as Crowley keeps flicking around.

“W-what do you mean?” Aziraphale peers, so Crowley demonstrates by using a chipped thumbnail to rip off the hard-plastic case on his phone. “O-oh, goodness.”

“It’s for protection. In case you drop it,” he shrugs, clicking it back into place with a little difficulty. “Humans think of everything,” he rubs his nose, missing the soft look Aziraphale gives him at that.

“I think you should pick; you know me the best,” he smiles and Crowley chuckles.

“Sure, angel,” he smiles.

“You should rest, dear,” Aziraphale closes a hand over his, interrupting his continued flicking.

“Not gonna force me to gorge on sundaes again?” Crowley sneers.

“Maybe later,” Aziraphale kisses his nose, giggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should note that Michael and Uriel are played here by the actresses from the TV version. 
> 
> Michael uses he/him pronouns because _gender_ man, I live for it, it's wild. 
> 
> Michael's in a (somewhat dysfunctional) polyamorous triad with Beelzebub and Dagon in this world, and I'm honestly a little sad that I don't seem to have the words to give their nonbinary/he-him lesbian relationship more screentime.


	14. Chapter 14

He stays over, reading with the demon for a good bit of the night. When Crowley manages to emerge from slumber for a dim moment sometime around midnight, Aziraphale kisses his forehead and excuses himself back to the shop.

Aziraphale drops by the hospital, frowning very deeply at the broken heap that’s left of Matthew Saffir. Still alive, and still a single father with two children that Uriel had almost killed ruthlessly without a thought to try to hide her trail. He’s in the hospital, stuck in a coma, so Aziraphale can’t really miracle him all the way better; that’d be a little suspicious. He pulls him back from the coma, stops his internal bleeding so that he’ll make it through the night alive, and accidentally cures the man of his near-sightedness as well.

Aziraphale wishes he’d been to America sometime in the last few millennia, because it does appear that there’s plenty of real estate available there for potential art museums, but he’s not confident in recommending them. He draws up a listing of eight or nine locations, mostly in the icy far reaches since the last time he’d seen Uriel actually smile and appear relaxed she’d been measuring glaciers and cackling as the angels used them like giant, icy slip-and-slides.

Crowley saunters into the shop sometime midday Wednesday, carrying a small wrapped box which he refuses to give over while the shop is open, smiling secretly to himself. He coils in one of the reading chairs and reads astrophysical theses on his phone while making the pretense that he’s perusing a hefty volume of Dante’s Inferno, pausing twice to have quiet conversations with Warlock. He paces around the aisles and looks very much like he lives and works there as he frustratedly glowers at a customer who has the audacity to misshelve a book in front of him, plucking it up and holding them there with a glare as he sockets it back in the correct place.

Aziraphale closes a little early after Crowley stares out the front door with something soft and mournful hiding beneath his cool exterior.

“How’s the boy?” Aziraphale asks, gently drawing the demon close with an arm around his waist.

“Too bloody normal,” Crowley chuckles as he turns in to embrace Aziraphale, a familiar refrain of eleven years. “Nah,” he shakes his head, turning away after a moment. “Just having a bad day. Want to come with me to pick him up? He could use a little… us,” he waves his hand, not meeting the angel’s eyes.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale lightly kisses his lips, frowning at the soft sadness that leaves on Crowley’s face. “Are _you_ alright?”

Crowley shrugs, turning away from him. “Remains to be seen,” he chuckles, and snaps their coats on as he stalks to the door.

* * *

The Bentley, surprisingly, does not really stand out amongst the cars waiting outside of Warlock’s school. There are even one or two cars almost as old as Crowley’s, though they’re in brighter colors and are inevitably sporting anachronistic tires. Most of them are black and long with a hired driver to cart the children of the rich and well-to-do around. Warlock slips into the back of the car, wearing hefty black sunglasses on a dim winter day and sporting a yellowing bruise with a thin scab on one of his cheeks.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale gasps back at the boy as Crowley slowly pulls out of the parking lot, driving at a very sane and human pace for once. “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale has millennia of experience reading expressions tucked behind glasses, so he doesn’t miss Warlock rolling his eyes and sullenly looking out the window. “Hello Mr., Mr. Cortese,” he sniffs, eyes flicking over the angel frustratedly.

“You could just call him Ezra, if you like,” Crowley offers softly, and Aziraphale sees the boy consider it.

“Ezra,” Warlock nods at him, and then stubbornly looks away from him out the window.

Aziraphale starts to get a little nervous as the silence draws out, Warlock just staring out the window and Crowley remaining cool and unreadable as he drives. He starts an argument about the genesis of plastic bags as one manages to get stuck on the window for a brief moment before fluttering off like a gross bit of autumn detritus. It isn’t until thirty minutes or so have passed, Crowley and he beginning to blame both or either side for the fact that all reusable, biodegradable bags seem to be made of gross tissue paper, nothing that people would actually embrace or use with any regularity, when Aziraphale realizes that Crowley’s driven around this block before. He recognizes a restaurant that he’s already noted once this trip with a _hm, Crowley might like that_.

He quirks a brow, considering the demon as he somehow manages to hold the mask, though his smile and bitten lip is something he didn’t use to allow himself, _yes, I’m being kind and yes, I know you see it, let’s just not talk about it_. Aziraphale glances back as Warlock shifts around a little in his periphery. He’s been aware of the boy in the car, certainly, but with Crowley there, certain other things just tended to fuzz into static, honestly.

Warlock’s taken off his glasses, and on top of the bruise on his cheek, his eye is a bit bruised with one or two telltale gouges that he recognizes from doctoring Crowley from punches received while wearing glasses. He also looks somewhat relieved, like he’s come in from the cold and is warming his hands over the stove, and it makes something in Aziraphale’s chest glow.

“Anywhere I can take you?” Crowley interrupts Aziraphale’s fluster of paternal, hm, no perhaps just _parental_ adoration, looking back at the boy in his rearview mirror. He’s wiled around London with Warlock like this a few times in the past year when he just wanted to not be at school and not be at home: _just drive please, I don’t care where. _Crowley could relate, so he’d kept the radio on low and let himself ramble a little as he passed a spot he liked, or a shop Aziraphale had glowed at, and maybe it had helped them both mend, lick their wounds, and ease back into their daily lives.

Crowley had brought Aziraphale for selfish reasons today honestly, figuring it was easier than dealing with having the angel worried, or perhaps opening his present while Crowley was out. He doesn’t realize it, but Warlock finds himself incredibly grateful for it too, missing the way that Mr. Cortese and Mr. Harrison would devolve from history and English into gently arguing about popular fiction or technology.

“Home, I guess,” Warlock sighs, absent-mindedly rubbing his cheek and wincing as he brushes the scab.

Crowley nods and begins wending their way to the Dowlings’ estate, and Aziraphale, for reasons even he doesn’t understand, gets into an argument with Crowley about the route he takes. He insists that he should’ve taken the scenic route that they used to drive every day as tutors and he finds that it feels off arriving at the estate in such a manner. Aziraphale is a little pouty as Crowley parks and snaps his door shut sharply before gently opening Warlock's and helping him out, holding his bag. Aziraphale’s even more pouty then because the demon walks away, leaving him in the Bentley so that he has to get out by himself, and _ooh the nerve!_

His buzzing discomfort at breaks in old habits, even if they haven’t driven like this to the Dowlings in over a year, fizzles as the three of them pause near the front of the manor. A huge, oblong sigil paints the entire front of the estate, thankfully too large and too fearsome for a human, even a rather gifted young seer, to sense.

“What?” Warlock steps back to consider the occult pair as they gawp up at the manor, as if there’s something there that he can’t see. He’s been seeing too much of everything lately, flitters of his co-ed’s thoughts and grimaces of their true selves hidden behind carefully blank faces; jumping as he passes an old man with ears spiky and long as his forearm, a woman who walks on tentacles instead of feet. He’s become dimly aware that Crowley’s charm is protecting him, somehow just being aware of their difference should be marking _him_ to be seen, but they hardly notice him, just smile and move on. The idea that there’s something huge, based on how Aziraphale’s head has cocked up and then down several times, that he can’t see on his own front lawn makes his neck prickle.

“Just someone leaving a little present for us,” Crowley sighs, taking Warlock’s shoulder and shaking his head as he leads them forward.

Warlock frowns, and digs his feet in as Crowley tries to lead him forward. “It, it won’t hurt you?” he squints at Crowley, his long red hair tied back in a neutral braid. Today, Warlock is also being treated to the soft light of a cracked red halo as well.

Crowley shrugs, motioning for Aziraphale to follow him. “Just give us a moment,” Aziraphale pats his shoulder too, “and perhaps, uhm, don’t look. It’ll hurt.” He makes a motion like he’s tapping at invisible glasses and Warlock blinks hard as the two of them walk forward and he is suddenly incredibly aware of the dull bass line that’s been blaring for the past week and _how had he not noticed that?_ As they step closer to it, Warlock drops to his knees, covering his ears as the noise somehow manages to get louder, until suddenly it cuts out, a zing of cinnamon on his nose and a soft hum, like Nanny smiling fondly as he drifts off.

“Just a malaise sigil,” Crowley grumbles, slamming a fist into it. It reverberates heartily at that.

“I suppose that explains the, uhm,” Aziraphale gestures at his cheek. “Here, shall I?” he offers as the demon scratches uselessly at it.

“Y’re always better with sigils,” Crowley sinks back, hands in his tiny pockets, gesturing with his shoulders for him to take point. Aziraphale steps forward, tilting his head this way and that, before laying a hand against the sigil that’s probably tall enough to be seen from space. It might be worrying, if it weren’t so clearly an act of desperation, a shoe rucked off and lobbed at someone as they’re being dragged out of the room. It’s Rosier’s own, and while it’s large and imposing, it dissolves like papier mâché in the rain under Aziraphale’s hands.

“I don’t think she actually laid the other traps,” Aziraphale sighs, shaking his hand and peering at the demon.

“’S dirty work,” Crowley chuckles, looking a little relieved and actually smiling now that the sigil’s effects are gone. They both glance back as Warlock runs forward and latches onto Crowley’s waist, not unlike he used to when he was younger, hungry for affection and touch.

“What was that?” Warlock asks, burying his head in the demon’s chest as he laughs a little fondly, petting his head.

“Just an old friend being a dick,” Crowley smirks as Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“It was a very large sigil,” Aziraphale offers as Warlock peeks over at him. “Very intent on making everyone here miserable.”

“Why?” Warlock squints after a moment, wincing at Aziraphale’s silver and gold halo, a little too bright. “Was it… death eaters?” Warlock looks terrified as he looks up at Crowley, who just chuckles softly.

“No,” Crowley shakes his head. “C’mon, let’s get you inside before you catch cold.” 

The angel and demon are a little unnerved to find the house incredibly understaffed. People have been coming down with a terrible illness, calling out in droves, and the staff remaining is pale and quivering with the stress of overwork. There’s no one in the enormous kitchen, and Warlock’s stomach keeps audibly gurgling, so Aziraphale whips him up a milk tea and some readymade pancakes with Crowley’s help. Crowley leans over the counter and listens intently as Warlock tells him all about his school day, the tentacle woman, the study group that had devolved into fisticuffs out of nowhere, and how everyone had sat back on their haunches afterwards feeling wretched and sick for no reason at all. Security had blamed a gas leak, and demanded Warlock wear a suffocating mask for a few days until he torched the thing in front of them.

They all freeze comically as Harriet Dowling lumbers into the kitchen, bedraggled with little bits of tissue stuffed in her nose to dam up the snuffling. She blinks blearily at them until Aziraphale, eyes darting around at the demon and Warlock with a nervous smile, hands her the remaining stack of flapjacks. She begins cutting into them as she walks off, muttering under her breath about feverish nonsense.

Aziraphale blesses the boy’s second milk tea, gently rubbing Warlock’s shoulder as he moves behind him to start washing up, and for the first time in at least a year, Warlock can look up at someone and just see… them. If he focuses, Crowley’s halo pops back to the fore, but it’s a choice, not a burden.

“S’pose you could teach him,” Crowley says in surprise, considering Aziraphale with his sudsy hands, sleeves rolled to the elbow.

“What, dear?” Aziraphale itches his chin on a shoulder irritably.

“You were at that enclave for… well, a while,” Crowley sighs, leaning back against the counter and flicking his eyes at Warlock who looks a little confused.

“Oh,” Aziraphale pauses, looking back at the demon. “Would that make us tutors again?” he smirks at the demon who rolls his eyes.

“Tutors of what?” Warlock squints, and Crowley gestures at his glasses. “Can’t you teach me?” Warlock sticks his lip out a little petulantly and Crowley chuckles.

“Angel’s better at it,” he gestures, and Warlock frowns at the pet name.

“Well, perhaps we could just start by seeing each other more regularly again,” Aziraphale sighs, looking a little worn and sad as he rubs Warlock’s shoulder again. “I’m terribly sorry for just…” he sighs, biting his lip and looking away from the child’s piercing blue eyes.

“A lot has happened,” Crowley leans in, tapping a finger on the counter to draw their attention. “We’ll figure out a schedule that works, hm?” he spreads his hands on the counter, inviting and encompassing the three of them.

* * *

As they leave, Crowley pauses and turns around, walking sleekly backwards and surveying to ensure there are no more enormous sigils. He ends up just blinking up at the estate, looking tired.

“Back to yours?” he asks quietly, taking Aziraphale’s hand.

“Well, perhaps we should get something to eat first,” Aziraphale smiles conspiratorially as Crowley rolls his eyes.

They slink into an old Mexican joint that they’d frequented during the Dowling era, and Crowley eats too, Aziraphale stopping him from dishes twice as he senses something off. He’s not sure when he started getting this preternatural sense for Crowley’s food problems, but it seems to have gotten even more honed in the past few months.

“Glad I got you a gift, ‘else I’d feel like I was slacking tonight,” Crowley huffs as he leads the angel into the bookshop.

“Oh, oh right,” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s arm excitedly where they’ve linked them.

Crowley proffers the silver-wrapped package with a soft smile, and Aziraphale quivers a little. Crowley’s given him so many thoughtful, loving gifts throughout the ages, and while he has a fair idea of what this is, it could be something that will steal his breath away at the demon’s love and care. He gently unwraps the box, smile crumpling fondly on his lips as he unveils a smart phone perfectly weighted to his hand, already enrobed in the unique, tan tartan of his bowtie with a little bauble hanging off on a beige cord showing two silver angel wings.

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Aziraphale kisses his cheek, although he’d been going for his mouth and missed as Crowley ducked his head shyly.

“’s already got Adam, Anathema, me, eh,” he shrugs and gestures out to suggest the myriad of other contacts he might have into perpetuity.

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale holds up a finger, and then caresses the bauble so that one of the wings turns black, and the whole charm appears far more heart-shaped, “needs a little bit more of you, dear.”

Crowley flushes deeply at that, looking away with a bitten lip. “’Course, angel,” he clears his throat and stalks away from him to jitter off the anxious energy that clearly stated affection and love brings up.

“Oh,” Crowley plucks off his boots, not heeled or uncomfortable, just settling in to relax. “I gave Warlock Adam’s number,” he gestures, as he walks into the back and Aziraphale follows after him with a lovestruck look, trying to decide where best to place his new cell phone on his person. He may have to go to the tailor and have a new pocket slotted in on his coats or waistcoats.

“Oh good,” Aziraphale nods. “I know he would’ve asked after it if you hadn’t,” Aziraphale sighs, setting the box and phone on the end table next to his armchair for now.

They stare at each other for a moment, Crowley leaning against the backside of the couch and Aziraphale leaning a hand and hip on one of his armchairs. Crowley looks lovely, flat-chested today in a red button down and black pants, though Aziraphale knows it’s almost a comfort outfit for him, nothing too saucy or adorned to turn things up. Aziraphale hasn’t been pushing, though he has certainly wanted to at points, and well, they’ve also had a rather busy time of it lately. Crowley takes off his glasses with shaking hands, and hooks them into the pocket of his shirt, eyes darting around.

“T-think I’m ready, angel,” he says softly, eyes flicking from the floor to Aziraphale’s face rapidly.

“Oh?” Aziraphale stays where he is, noting the tremor in Crowley’s leg that he’s masking almost well-enough mixed with the tautness of his shoulders.

Crowley frowns at him after a moment, stilling.

“Oh, I’m interested dear,” Aziraphale grins warmly, stepping forward finally. “I just wouldn’t want to,” he sighs, looking away for a moment.

“Push,” Crowley growls it like a command, tugging him to him by his lapels and crushing their mouths together. “I told you not to stop,” he hisses, breaking the kiss and tugging Aziraphale in so that his hips are pushing Crowley harder against the back of the couch.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale chuckles as he draws his hands down to support the demon’s lower back. “You just got so startled that time,” he bites his lip and Crowley jolts and shudders under him, looking incredibly ashamed as he looks away. Aziraphale tries to step away, give him his space, but Crowley gropes him closer again, mouthing at his jaw.

“I,” Crowley sighs, leaning his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder, sinking so that his weight is mostly held up by the angel’s hips pinning him. “I don’t know, angel,” he sighs, “I’m ready, but we’ll just see how it goes, hm?” His eyes still have that trembling sadness that he'd noticed earlier tucked in them, and Aziraphale sighs, caressing his cheek.

“I’ll take anything you give me, dear,” Aziraphale whispers and Crowley’s eyes tick down, ashamed again. “Anything, am I clear?” he ticks the demon’s chin up, forcing him to look at him. “Let’s just enjoy each other in all the wild and wonderful ways that we can,” he smirks and Crowley rolls his eyes, laughing quietly.

“Incorrigible,” Crowley whispers, shadowing his eyes under his hair as he softly takes Aziraphale’s thumb into his mouth.

“Oh, oh dear,” Aziraphale quivers. “Let’s, uhm, let’s sit,” he gestures at the couch the demon’s leant them both against. Crowley makes to tilt back with a smirk, gently grabbing Aziraphale’s sides, but at that Aziraphale snaps and they’re positioned so that they’ll fall into properly sitting on the couch. Crowley squawks and falls back into the couch, tugging Aziraphale into his lap.

“Better,” Aziraphale grins, settling his hips so that he’s positioned to grind down and gain purchase, pinning the demon to the back of the couch with a kiss that has him whimpering into his mouth. Crowley manages to come up, well, not for air, Aziraphale’s not letting him do that right now, but he palms off the angel’s coat and unbuttons his waistcoat until Aziraphale grabs him by the hair and grinds down with a fierce growl.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Crowley gasps, panting and staring bewildered up at the possessive, hungry look on Aziraphale’s face.

“Too—?” Aziraphale tries to school it back, but Crowley is already shaking his head and kissing him back. It’s enough of a jolt, though, that Aziraphale pulls off of him for a moment, panting and shrugging off his waistcoat that the demon has obligingly unbuttoned for him.

“I have a question,” he starts, and Crowley’s eyes dart and dance around, too aroused and flushed to rush to panic at that.

“’Kay? Technically, ya just askk—” his back arches and he hisses as Aziraphale punishes him with another purposeful rock of his clothed hips against the bulge between them.

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale manages, chuckling softly as Crowley looks up at him with wonder and lust, ready to talk back again for _more of_ _that_, _please_.

“’m listening,” Crowley sniffs, licking his lips.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale forces himself to settle back a bit on Crowley’s knees, toying with the lapels of the demon’s shirt. “A-about your chest,” he gestures, and skepticism quickly situates itself on the demon’s face at the topic of conversation. “Is it, how shall I, uhm, refer to it? And… do you like to have them touched? You always seem to pull on a shirt when we’re together.”

Crowley shrugs his shoulders a little, settling back and pulling away from the arousal that’s running away from him so that he can actually string words together in a meaningful manner.

“Techn’cally that’s two, no, three, questions” he holds up his fingers, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes, laughing quietly. “They’re breasts. You have ‘em too, they’re just, they’re just breasts,” he shrugs, “everyone has ‘em. It’s fine.” He pushes his hair out of his face and inhales deeply. “Touching is fine, they’re not… they’re not the most amazing feeling for me, like, you’re not gonna get me off at that,” he makes a twisting motion with his fingers and Aziraphale winces. “They’re there,” he shrugs, “sometimes they’re sensitive, but it’s, not really at the moment.”

He looks expectantly up at the angel, letting his eyes drift purposely to his lips after a moment and Aziraphale gently pushes his face back with a suppressed chuckle.

“Would you like to keep the shirt on, then?” he asks, hands gentle on his shoulder as he thumbs the lapels.

“Nah,” Crowley shakes his head. “’S like the glasses angel,” he sniffs, making to begin unbuttoning the shirt, but Aziraphale quickly grabs his hands.

“Oh please, allow me,” he grins, enjoying the flush that cascades down the demon’s cheeks at that. Crowley bites back a high whine, wishing that Aziraphale was kissing him instead of watching rapturously as he slowly reveals a few measly inches of flesh at a time with each button undone. He can’t fully take off the shirt, tucked in and belted as it is, but he reaches in and caresses the synthetic fabric of the binder, thumbing the dark spots where his nipples are hiding beneath.

“Angel,” Crowley pants up at him, and Aziraphale had planned to keep withholding his kisses, draw this out a little more but Crowley tugs him in, crashing their lips together. He’s never undone a binder before, though he is certainly very aware that it’s easier than a bra from listening to men gripe about the clasps. He pinches the zipper between his thumb and forefinger and slowly drags it down, reveling in the relieved sigh the demon emits as his breasts pour forth. He leans forward, pressing his chest against Crowley’s to feel the soft swell and chuckles as Crowley’s hand gropes his backside, tugging his hips in to grind against him again.

“S’pose that’s not what you really need undone, is it?” Aziraphale husks, kissing the brand and leaning back, letting his fingers dance on Crowley’s stomach, tempting and teasing near the prominent erection in his too-tight pants.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whines, hips helplessly pinned beneath his weight but he can feel the demon trying to grind up into him.

“Did you need something?” Aziraphale teases, kissing down his neck and thumbing at his belt buckle as Crowley pants. “You’ll have to use your words, dear,” he grins as Crowley gulps back a whine.

The demon closes his eyes for a moment, shivering as Aziraphale fondles his breast, and it’s not just a look of rapture in his brow, but something furrowed, concentrating and quivering. Aziraphale frowns as he notices, gently cupping the demon’s chin and raising his brows as Crowley opens his eyes.

“Y’want this, right?” Crowley looks desperate and scared, shaking, and Aziraphale huffs a soft laugh, caressing his cheek and thumbing his kiss-swollen lips.

“Let me show you how much I want this,” Aziraphale croons, kissing him gently and cupping him through his pants, making the demon grunt and exhale sharply into his mouth. He pinches the zipper down, thumbing the button open and biting a lip as Crowley heaves a relieved groan at finally being released.

“I love you,” Aziraphale kisses the demon’s cheek, getting his hand situated around him through his boxer briefs, and Crowley mimes the words right back at him in a hissing whisper.

“I’m going to take your pants off,” Aziraphale says softly, allowing Crowley his unbuttoned shirt and loosened binder as armor remaining.

“S-sure,” Crowley pants, and Aziraphale begins kissing down his neck, tonguing his chest and swirling a dark nipple in his mouth as he miracles the pants off. Crowley throws his head back as Aziraphale delicately nips a nipple with just his lips while firmly gripping him in his underwear and thumbing at the cotton-clad head of his cock. He slinks off of the demon’s lap, kissing further down, wasting another miracle to slip Crowley’s underwear off, leaving him twitching in the cool air of the back of the bookshop.

Aziraphale gently blows air on the head of his cock, noting the wet bead of precum and the taut whine Crowley produces at that.

“I have so longed to do this,” Aziraphale gently caresses Crowley’s cock, nuzzling it to his cheek and grinning at the choked noise Crowley makes, crimping his eyes shut. “You’re so beautiful, dear,” he whispers, using a finger to draw the precum down the underside of his cock, and softly cupping his balls as he thumbs at the base of it, enjoying the coarse red hairs there.

“P-please,” Crowley grits, vibrating with embarrassment and arousal. Aziraphale looks up at him, beatific and so, so pleased, and Crowley is terrified the angel’s going to make him beg him to suck him off. He relents, though, softly bending the curve of his cock towards him and laying his _fuck fuck he’s so hot fuck_ mouth around the head of it in a warm, smiling kiss.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale grins, swirling his pyretic tongue around and slowly leaning forward, taking more of him into his mouth. Crowley’s lost, he’s just gone upstairs at the moment, jaw hanging loose as all he can deal with sensing right now is Aziraphale’s soft, perfect mouth as he easily tongues around him. He’s making the same _fucking_ noises he makes when he’s eating cakes and pies, but its Crowley’s cock buried in his mouth this time, and Aziraphale swallows hard around him. He slowly draws his mouth back, hollowing his cheeks and tonguing at a spot here or there as it interests him. Crowley expects Aziraphale to pop off primly, dab his lips, simper and make Crowley try to say something, speak up when he’s so bloody wrecked, but the angel just bobs his head back down with a hungry noise.

Aziraphale is so good at this that Crowley’s a bit disappointed that he can’t just shut off and enjoy it for once. He almost can, he quivers and he shuts his eyes tight as Aziraphale chases his mouth with a hand, never letting any of Crowley’s cock free from sensation for a moment. He tries to make himself dizzy thinking about what it’ll feel like buried in Aziraphale’s radiating heat, even hotter than his mouth surely, and bites his lip trying to focus on the way that Aziraphale’s tongue slips out to dab at his testicles as he breathes against his pubic bone, holding him there and Crowley almost, _almost_ manages to focus hard enough to see stars as Aziraphale swallows and hums happily.

It’s been thirty-two minutes, and he knows even without checking his watch because _fucking_ time, he always knows when there’s someone working him over and he doesn’t deserve _two minutes_, let alone thirty-two minutes of Aziraphale’s velveteen mouth around him. He’s trying so desperately to focus on Aziraphale’s pleased whimpers, like he’s sopping up the remaining fudge of a lava cake or locking eyes with him that _one, _single time as he slowly, using absolutely zero teeth, sucked a bratwurst into his mouth.

_No no you can’t take this away from me please_, Crowley whines, clawing at the couch and leaning down so that his red curls are brushing Aziraphale’s shoulders and head as Aziraphale turns his head at an angle, bobbing his cock against the inside of his cheek before making an obscene slurping noise and descending again.

“Fuck, please,” Crowley whines, _let me have this fuck please_, but his body isn’t listening, already ratcheting the orgasm that he’s clawing at too far away. It’s forty-six minutes, and Crowley can’t help the tears that tremble down his face.

For some reason, Crowley’s never been particularly good at receiving affection. It wasn’t doled out much in heaven, and after the fall, pain was more prevalent than pleasure, and well, they all just had to make due, didn’t they? He’d found it difficult just allowing himself the space to feel good and feel pleasure, growling in frustration as his body refused to let him just _fucking _have this. The relief when he finally managed to work around the swells and valleys and just get-get-get just, just_ there_ left him shaky and quivering, unsure if it had even been worth it in the end. And then, with lovers, with lovers it could be so much worse. Those who loved him were inevitably the sorts of people who saw his angst, his wincing at affection, the way he butted up into a caress hungering for more, and they would grin wolfishly: _oh, I’ll drown you in it, kill you with kindness, I will_.

Fellatio was the worst, he’d found. The coiling, dark sickness would perch on his shoulders and begin crowing the seconds away, reminding him of his lover’s sore jaw, aching knees, how they were getting nothing from this but pain, but discomfort, and if he could just_ get off_ already it’d be a blessing, a gift, so he could get on with their pleasure, and his orgasm would coil away from him like a scared animal when he needed it most.

“H-hah, s-stop,” Crowley whimpers, as _fifty_ clangs in his mind and _fuck_ he can’t believe he’s made Aziraphale suffer for fifty minutes. How had he allowed himself to do that? _Ruthless, terrible, horrible, demon_.

Aziraphale pops off of his cock with an indecent noise, looking flushed and a little glazed, concern furrowing his brow at the shivering and the tears.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale licks his lips, eyes flicking down at the rosy cock that’s softly bobbing along with his heartbeat and still dripping with saliva and precum. It’s an incredible effort not to just pull him back into his mouth, smother the demon with his throat while listening to the soft hissing and whimpers as he finally, _finally_ gets to force Crowley to sit back and enjoy something.

Crowley shakes his head, looking wretched and leaning back. “Uhm,” Aziraphale wipes his chin a little self-consciously, miracling away the slobbery drips on his shirt and the couch. “T-too much?” he offers, coughing a little and swallowing thickly as he finds that he is very distinctly missing having the demon’s girth stuffed in his mouth.

“No,” Crowley growls tightly, leaning back and draping a hand over his eyes.

“Talk to me, dear,” Aziraphale leans back, fingers softly caressing his jutting hipbones, the cord of muscle along the outside of his thigh.

Crowley shivers, a tight whine and a grimace on his lips. “Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, pushing himself up from kneeling and settling next to the demon on the couch, softly rubbing his upper arm.

“Y’re too good,” Crowley’s voice is taut and wet. “D’nt d-d-d,” he hiccups, jerking forward in surprise as his breath refuses to cooperate with him, and a tight sob rends from him. “D’serve it,” he manages, looking guiltily up at Aziraphale. His mouth twists around and Aziraphale frowns as the demon fingers his knees in his trousers, soothing a pain that isn’t really there.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale plucks his hand up in his and waits for Crowley to meet his eyes. “You deserve to feel good, dear,” he gently kisses the knuckles, and Crowley gulps and looks away. His hand fondles up Aziraphale’s arm blindly, and Aziraphale frowns a little until he feels a soft miracle touching his jaw.

“Crowley,” he sighs, pulling the demon’s quivering fingers to clasp around his cheek. “You’re not hurting me, dear. Frankly, I’m having a _grand _time,” he lets the hot curl of lust still blazing in his gut come to the fore at that, and Crowley twitches and gulps, looking wonderous. “I’m an angel dear, a blow job is not going to put me out like it might a human,” he smirks and Crowley’s throat clicks as he swallows.

“’Kay,” Crowley gulps, but Aziraphale can tell that message hasn’t sunk in at all. Crowley’s eyes flick over the angel, flushed and still completely clothed. He hasn’t even unbuttoned his fly. _Cruel, selfish, only thinking about your own pleasure_, rips through his mind but he swallows it down. “Y’re overdressed,” he sniffs, leaning forward and softly undoing Aziraphale’s buttons. There’s no heat in it, and were it not for Crowley’s jutting erection and the taut wet ache between Aziraphale’s legs, it might almost be completely platonic, undressing him simply so that he could put him down to bed or change him for a bath.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale clasps the demon’s hand as he softly begins undoing the buttons on his fly. The tears and taut anxiety are loosening and he just looks a little tired, wincing as he accidentally brushes an elbow over his cock.

Crowley almost ruins it by shrugging and saying, “’s up to you,” but he has the foresight to know that that’s just going to devastate the evening more than he already has.

“Still up for it,” he manages a genuine smile as he leans forward to kiss him. Aziraphale stands to step out of his pants, discarding his shirt and pulling off his undershirt. He chuckles as the demon licks his lips, staring very pointedly at the wetness that has completely sopped down his thighs. Everything saucy that he might say at that withers though, potentially making Crowley more self-conscious, or pushing him too far. _I see you want to return the favor_, _but I’d really rather have your cock in me than your tongue right now_.

Crowley squeaks a little, eyes widening as Aziraphale settles in his lap, pointedly sitting so that their sexes won’t meet unless Crowley jerks him closer. He kisses the demon hard into the cushions again; Crowley really likes kissing, more than he would’ve expected really. He hasn’t kissed quite nearly this much with anyone in all of his years, and it makes him a little giddy, feeling like a teenager necking in secret, even as the demon teases a knuckle over his labia, twitching close to his clit. Aziraphale snickers, pinning the demon’s hands back on the couch so he can’t sliver him over the edge yet, and keeps punishingly kissing him.

Crowley pants, laughing softly as Aziraphale mouths at his neck. He wriggles against the angel’s hold, testing his strength.

“Lemme up,” he husks, and Aziraphale does, expecting that he’s probably poked another traumatic hornet’s nest, but Crowley lurches forward, discarding his shirt and binder and tonguing his neck as he picks him up and _jolts_ them into his bedroom, laying the angel down on his plush quilts. “Gotta wear in the new mattresssss,” Crowley grins, tongue unapologetically forked as he leers down at Aziraphale, rubbing his cock against Aziraphale’s absolutely sodden mons. Aziraphale whines, legs coiling around the demon’s hips and bucking up against the delicious, warm friction.

“Please, Crowley, _please_,” he gasps as the demon softly rubs the head of his cock against his clit.

“Question,” Crowley sniggers into the angel’s ear, and Aziraphale is going to discorporate if he doesn’t start fucking him _right this second_. “’S seriousssss,” he hisses, giggling but he draws back like a true gentleman so that Aziraphale won’t drive himself insane trying to work his cock into him when the serpent of bloody Eden apparently has an _important question_.

“What?” Aziraphale snaps, silver eyes flashing as Crowley softly lets his fingers drift over his labia again. “S-stop that,” he swats his hands away, flustered.

Crowley leans forward, hiding his insouciant grin with his hair. “What d’ya call it?” he asks softly, yellow eyes flicking up worriedly at him.

Aziraphale has no idea what the demon is talking about for a solid minute, blinking furiously. “I, it, it doesn’t matter Crowley,” Aziraphale growls, reaching forward to grab the demon’s cock and guide him forward but the demon dances away.

“’Does too,” Crowley husks, toying with his wrists and rocking on his feet.

“G-uhm,” Aziraphale sighs, staring pointedly at his ceiling. Gender and labels mean a lot to the demon, he knows. Aziraphale has never really cared personally, just gone with what felt right and shrugging as people named him this or that. Aziraphale had learned that rather distinctly when he’d tittered a _mademoiselle _at the demon as he stared up at the moon in a slinky gown, and the demon’s shoulders had gone stiff.

“Monsieur, please, if we’re alone,” he had coughed, and oh, _oops._ Well, Aziraphale was always very careful after that, negotiating with a brow and offering, _oh, Anthony? What’s the J stand for? No, no I’ll get used to it_.

“It, it is what it is,” he grumbles, finding he’s actually quite flustered to name it what it is with the demon peering down at him. “A, uhm, a vagina and the full… accoutrement,” he gestures, like he’s tossing up confetti. _There, happy? Get you cock over here and fuck me already_.

“Accoutrement?” Crowley snickers, stepping forward again. “Didn’t want to… ruin it, y’know, say the wrong thing,” he sniffs, gently rubbing his cock against his labia again and Aziraphale writhes beneath him.

“S-stop,” Aziraphale whines, and Crowley obediently gives him a little pause. “I, I, y-you?” he gestures at his cock, and Crowley chuckles.

“’S a cock, Aziraphale,” he grins lopsidedly.

“Good, good, okay, give it to me already,” Aziraphale growls, managing to grab the offending organ and pull the demon into him and they both suck in deep breath of air as he easily sinks all the way to the root with how slick and ready Aziraphale is.

“_God_,” Crowley blasphemes, panting and just resting there, gritting his teeth at the utter sinfulness of this, the wanton heavenly bliss of being sunk inside of Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern Gate, and the swell of lust and love that pours out of bloody nowhere at that thought is so overwhelming that he goes completely blind for a few seconds.

“You-y-y—” Aziraphale whines, wiggling his hips and pawing at the demon as he keeps just _fucking_ standing there. “You’re supposed to move,” he grits, and Crowley laughs softly.

“Angel,” he grins down at him with so much fondness and mirth that Aziraphale quails a little. “Angel, I think your uh,” he sniffs pointedly, “your eyes are bigger than your stomach.”

“W-what,” Aziraphale pauses, realizing _oh oops did I do that_, biting his lips at how utterly, deliciously snug the demon is nestled inside him, perhaps two or three sizes thicker than he normally is.

“You aren’t going to be able to walk after this,” Crowley nips a kiss on his jaw fondly, still laughing.

“Oh please,” Aziraphale wriggles his hips more ferociously and tenses around him, savoring the way Crowley’s jaw drops and his eyebrows arch up his forehead at that. “Nothing a miracle won’t fix,” he purrs, pulling the demon in for a soft kiss. “Get on with it, then,” he smirks as the demon breaks the kiss.

Crowley’s brow furrows, his lips still trembling in an incredulous smile. “I, uhm,” he giggles, “I can’t?” Aziraphale scowls at him, so he tosses his hair back and proves it, jerking his hips back and pulling the angel’s hips and body back with him.

“O-oh dear,” Aziraphale flushes deeply, one hand grabbing the quilt for support while the other palms his chest as he quivers around the demon just from the _idea_ of having Crowley helplessly stuck and snug inside of him, never mind that it’s absolutely totally fact right this second.

“Fucking hell,” Crowley pants, his hips twitching forward at Aziraphale’s spasming around him and Aziraphale gasps as he’s helplessly carted along.

“Okay,” he sighs, waving a wrist to restore himself to his normal girth and withdrawing, smirking as Aziraphale rushes forward to remiracle him back. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right,” he crawls onto the bed, reshuffling pillows and quilts so that he has something to lean back against. He squints, rooting around in the bedside table and plucking out a bottle of lube, surprisingly not only there because Crowley expects it to be. Aziraphale snatches it out of his hands, so Crowley gestures towards the thick, prominent cock between his legs with a smirk, _well, come on then_.

Aziraphale rubs the lube over his hands, warming it, and then gently draws his hands up and down over his cock, Crowley panting a little at the soft, concentrated attention. He waves the excess lube off of his hands and crawls forward, gently guiding the demon’s thick cock into him. It’s slow going, Crowley whimpering as Aziraphale slowly sinks three inches, then a very, very slow half-inch, fingers circling his clit. He’s biting his lip, and his face is a rare sight, Aziraphale devouring too many servings of a dish because if he doesn’t, oh, no one else will and it’s just simply _too good to waste_. Crowley’s brain is rewiring madly, realizing that _oh fuck_ those expressions could be applied to sex, and _OH FUCK_ those expressions could be applied to partaking of _him_. He studiously takes a few steps to the right of that realization, too zingy and bright to really look at right this second.

“Lemme,” Crowley hisses, brushing Aziraphale’s fingers away and gently thumbing his clit in insistent circles. Aziraphale draws up and sinks back, suddenly gaining another few inches and Crowley’s hands snap away to clutch the quilt as he whines through his nose, desperately holding himself back from bucking up and sinking all the way in.

“You’re so good to me,” Aziraphale leans forward, kissing his cheek as Crowley pants, biting his lip, eyes rolling back as Aziraphale rises and then sinks again, almost, _almost oh god _all the way.

“A-angel,” he gasps, frantic, eyes darting all over him, eating up this moment as Aziraphale adjusts himself, bracing an arm on his shoulder and driving himself down again. “F-fucking hell,” he gasps, curling forward to keep Aziraphale from withdrawing now that he’s fully seated again. “Y-you’re good, you feel sssso good,” he hisses, trying to repeat Aziraphale’s compliment to him but dissolving as Aziraphale rolls his hips in a circle, smirking saucily.

Aziraphale pushes him back into the quilts and pillows, punishingly pulling off of him, then slamming his hips down, smirking as Crowley whimpers in a dead language, fingers trembling at the quilts.

“Think you could manage it now?” Aziraphale smirks, pulling off of him again and thunking back on the bed. He slaps his thighs as the demon remains resolutely where he is, eyes unblinking but following him.

“Well?” Aziraphale runs a finger up and down his slit before pointing the dripping digit up towards the demon with a come-hither motion.

“Is this real?” Crowley still hasn’t moved, body still oddly punched down from Aziraphale’s last pin and fuck.

“Yes,” Aziraphale smiles indulgently, toying with himself.

“You’re gorgeous,” Crowley stiffly unfurls himself, licking his lips and staring at Aziraphale’s sex hungrily.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Aziraphale tweaks his finger in front of the demon’s nose until Crowley’s eyes draw up to his, brow quirked. He grins, pointing at his cock, “That, please.”

“Ssso picky,” Crowley chuckles, but he crawls forward, his forked tongue too long to sit in his mouth right now, leaving a wet trail behind as he draws his face up to kiss him. “Sssoo fussy,” he hisses, wetly kissing his neck and lining himself up and Aziraphale whimpers at his pausing.

“Crowley,” he whines, because Crowley is waiting for him to beg, to say _yes please, I want this, I want you,_ “Give me your cock already, you stupid serpent.”

“Sssooo, mmm,” he moans as he finally makes good on the request, Aziraphale’s hands scrabbling on his back and his legs hooking around his hips, bucking up into him. “Sssooo demanding, angel,” he grins as Aziraphale begs him to keep fucking him in Etruscan of all things. Words fail them both as they fall into the bliss of the physical, Aziraphale arcing up and clawing at the demon’s back too many times to count as Crowley bites his lip and keeps going. _Anything for you, anything, anything_ drips from him as Aziraphale gasps his name and bites and kisses Crowley’s neck and chest.

Somehow, Crowley doesn’t get panicked by the amount of time it’s taking him, perhaps soothed by the fact that Aziraphale’s orgasming every five minutes or so, gasping and begging him to keep going, _don’t stop, never stop, give it all to me_. His neck and shoulders cramp up though, and he has to lie back and let Aziraphale take over for a bit. It’s then, with Aziraphale kissing sweet nothings into his neck, caressing a breast and thumbing a nipple, that Crowley gasps like he’s just been shot, causing Aziraphale to start terribly until the demon curls forward, littering _love you love you love you_ on his chest in Enochian as his hips stutter and twitch up into him.

He sinks back, shivering and still twitching, wincing as the aftershocks of his orgasm refuse to leave him be, and Aziraphale grits through one last, shuddering orgasm before sinking onto Crowley’s chest.

“W-well,” Aziraphale pants as he listens to Crowley’s racing heartbeat begin to slow in his ear, Crowley’s slightly black and pointed fingers toying with his springy ringlets.

“Was it good for you?” Crowley husks with a smirk, his voice so dark and wrecked that Aziraphale _shudders_, which makes Crowley whine and shudder too thanks to how they’re still so deeply interconnected.

“B-better than I could’ve,” he sighs deeply, “could’ve imagined dear.”

He’d daydreamed, sometimes, of having a night like this before the apocalypse, both of them wrecking into each other, crashing and sinking on each other’s rocky shores and then lying back. They’d blink at the sunrise, raise a toast: _To oblivion,_ _I need nothing more after this_. They’d just softly accept their fate, God so obviously crashing in and destroying them for being so terribly base and naughty, but it wouldn’t matter. They’d had their fun, and it would be enough to rest his head on Crowley’s breast and sigh, _he loves me, and you can’t take that away from me no matter what you do_.

Aziraphale would kill God if He tried to destroy them right now, because while he’s going to sleep and probably waste a miracle or two on his hips, he’s not satisfied with _just this_. It’s beautiful feeling Crowley slowly relax beneath him, trembling occasionally as his body shivers through another aftershock, not letting him sleep just yet. It’s the most wonderous thing in the world, this burning, aching, joyous cacophony of love in his chest, this _yes, I love you and you love me, we fit, we are one._ It’s just, it’s not enough. Even if he were to dip his lips to this burning draught for the rest of his days, he’s not sure if it will _ever_ be enough. It’s terrifying to realize just how much he wants, how much he _craves_ the demon beneath him, and he finds that he wants to curl up and crawl away, _no no I’ll hurt you if you see this, it’s too much_.

“Feelin’s mutual,” Crowley husks, kissing his crown with a soft laugh, linking their hands and gently letting Aziraphale in, the yawning chasm he’d gaped at earlier positively overflowing with love and life and _I love you I love you I love you_.

* * *

Tomorrow morning comes too soon. It always does.

They honestly should’ve started heading to Tadfield yesterday, Anathema and Electronics were arriving this morning, but well, Aziraphale and Crowley are both the two most accomplished procrastinators in the universe at this point. Why break the streak?

Aziraphale doesn’t have any special curtains blocking the sun out, so Crowley wakes first to the dim light of the sunrise and immediately wishes he hadn’t. _His_ hips aren’t particularly happy with him either, something tweaked somewhere in the night when he must’ve gotten a little too into things, and he coiled his neck and shoulders hard in anxiety while Aziraphale had gone down on him. Today’s also apparently one of those days where light, of any sort, is like a ragged blade sharply dragging on his retinal nerves.

“Angel,” Crowley growls, because Aziraphale’s weight is currently pinning him to the bed and he’s in too much pain to really think about pushing him off right now. It’s not that it’s an unpleasant thing, no, he’d love to lay here for the rest of eternity, but maybe if he had his glasses on, or didn’t have any other compunctions nagging at him.

Aziraphale stretches up at his voice, making a soft mewling noise of pleasure at the pops and cracks of his own corporation.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale purrs, and for an honest moment Crowley thinks that the hand brushing him is just random, Aziraphale’s palm moving up under the covers, maybe to worry at his hair or something. “I love you,” Aziraphale croons as he softly caresses his cock and Crowley finds he’s suddenly very able to move and jerk away in spite of his incredibly tense muscles.

“’ve got somewhere t’ be,” Crowley husks, jerking himself up on his elbows and slinking away from Aziraphale’s morning arousal. He means _we’ve_ but well, his word engine isn’t quite online yet.

“You’ve got somewhere to be?” Aziraphale frowns, walking his hot-coal fingertips up Crowley’s inner thigh and _fuck_, if he doesn’t stop this right now, he’s going to have Aziraphale mouthing him again and he doesn’t want to deal with the paranoia and panic potentials again so soon.

“Tadfield,” Crowley falls out of the bed on purpose, cementing a painful crick in his neck against the floor. “Witch girl?” he croaks as Aziraphale peers down at him with an appraising look, considering his naked form sprawled on the floor.

“Mmm,” he smiles, and it’s like when Crowley’s asked him a question but Aziraphale’s gone into the food-zone, completely enrobed in sumptuously enjoying a bit of Battenberg or dill and gravlax or whatever.

“Tadfield, angel, we’re going.” Crowley starts trying to stand up, and he has to take it very slow, hissing and cracking the whole way.

“Oooh, dear,” Aziraphale gives him a pitying look. “Perhaps you’d better come back to bed,” he purrs, patting the comforter and were it not for the lust apparent in his eyes, Crowley would easily. He just wants to sleep, really, maybe kiss a little more, but no that would just inevitably get him hard again and just, he doesn’t want to deal with all the potential pitfalls there.

“No,” Crowley grumbles, limping out of the bedroom while using a hand on the wall to keep himself upright. He grunts and grumbles into the bathroom, taking a sitting shower and using the warm water to limber himself up. Aziraphale has collected his clothes from where they were discarded downstairs and offers them up as Crowley limps back into the room.

“I’ll go pack up my suitcase and be back in an hour, eh, angel?” Crowley sniffs as he buttons up the red shirt, sans binder this time.

Aziraphale pulls him to him by the waist, completely naked still, and gives him a soft and warm kiss which lasts surprisingly long.

“You’re too good to me, dear,” he offers to Crowley’s lapels. “I’ll be ready in an hour, darling,” he kisses him again, and Crowley frowns a little at the tears speckling his pale lashes.

“I love you,” Crowley blurts as soon as Aziraphale’s withdrawn, looking incredibly worried. “I love you, it’s okay, we just… we have to go to Tadfield?”

Aziraphale throws up his head and laughs, and the clouds outside draw back and the sun peeks out.

“I’m afraid I’ll never have enough of you, dear,” Aziraphale thumbs his chin, smiling fondly, his eyes brilliantly icy blue like the sky he’s just cleared. “But indeed, we have other plans. Maybe give me an hour and a half,” he smirks coyly up at him, playful.

“S-sure,” Crowley stutters, looking lovestruck and utterly bewildered.

* * *

They leave in the early afternoon, managing to miss rush hour and lunch traffic narrowly. Aziraphale has dressed in a very dark gray suit, and it’s very becoming but also something that Crowley is very surprised to see that he even owns. It’s not his magician garb, but it does sort of remind him of it because the last time he’d seen him wear something black was at Warlock’s eleventh birthday party.

“Are you in mourning?” Crowley smirks, because he can’t leave well enough alone, and there’s little tremors of panic sliding up his spine as they hit the first layers of Adam’s aura a few miles out from Tadfield.

“E-excuse me?” Aziraphale huffs, affronted.

“Your outfit,” he gestures with a smirk. Crowley’s wearing a lot of black himself, black striped slacks, black plush sweater with a dark gray button up under, his black duster tucked so that he won’t crowd into it while driving.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale’s eyes rake over him for a moment, obviously jabbing, _you’re wearing more black than **me**_**. **“Far from it,” he crosses his arms, flushing.

“Ah,” Crowley chuckles. “Have I tempted you to the dark side, finally?” Crowley croons, and Aziraphale squawks as he nearly careens into a fence.

“_Watch the road!_” he jerks Crowley’s shoulder to keep them from crashing. “Look, I’ve worn white for millennia. Can’t an angel wear something _other_ than white and cream and, and eggshell and beige, and,” he makes a terribly frustrated noise, looking anywhere but the demon.

“Well, when you look as good as you do in it,” Crowley purrs as they pause at a stop sign and Aziraphale looks up at him with murder in his eyes.

“Do not flirt with me while you’re driving,” he growls, crossing his arms and looking back at the countryside.

“Oh? Why not?” Crowley sneers as he floors it through an ill-kept road surrounded by pasture.

“_You know why_,” Aziraphale growls, his knuckles white on his upper arms, itching to properly punish such incendiary words, and Crowley chuckles softly. Crowley keeps laughing lightly as they get closer to Tadfield, eyes drawing over the angel who’s still fuming.

“S’pose you’ve been wearing more colors since, well, since last year,” Crowley rubs a lock of hair that’s escaped his braid behind his ear absent-mindedly. “It looks good on you,” he offers, no heat, just an honest compliment.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale grumbles. 

* * *

This cottage is a little plainer than the last, just one floor. The bed’s a little plusher though, and Crowley falls onto it almost immediately. Aziraphale swats his butt playfully, giggling at the affronted look Crowley gives him.

“What, it was there,” he smirks, hand toying with his lips nervously as his eyes continue to draw up and down him.

“Incorrigible,” Crowley grumbles, massaging his braid out.

“I’ll get in contact with Them and Anathema. You rest,” he caresses Crowley’s cheek and kisses his forehead as he plucks off his glasses so that he won’t get bruises again. Crowley glowers at the soft, perfect light filtering in through the filmy curtains, so Aziraphale pulls a small charcoal gray sleeping mask from the ether and offers it.

Crowley shakes his head, smirking fondly. “You’re too much,” he sighs, pulling off his sweater and unspooling his belt. “Too good to me,” he quickly clarifies as Aziraphale looks a bit flustered.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Aziraphale grins smugly up at him.

“Fuck off,” Crowley grumbles affectionately. Aziraphale smothers his laughter and waves as he walks out of the room.

* * *

Electronics’ picked up a light cold while they were flying, and inevitably his mother found out and has stormed their cottage with soup and quilts, insisting that he rest and not do anything too stressful. Aziraphale considers stomaching meatloaf at Adam’s, but ultimately just pulls out a novel and curls up next to the demon on the bed for the evening. He’s still dressed in his dark gray slacks and waistcoat on top of the covers, but he ends up petting the demon’s curls and settling in as Crowley unconsciously coils around his warmth, nestling his head into his stomach and pulling him close.

Conscious, Crowley might still be struggling with _deserving_ and _wanting_, but asleep he lolls in Aziraphale’s love and care like a dozy cat in a span of sunlight. To be fair, he has been doing so whenever he lets his inhibitions get low enough for quite a long time.

Crowley sniffs awake with the sunrise the next day, sleep mask rucked around his throat from nuzzling into Aziraphale’s chest all night. He considers the tableau before him for a moment, frowning.

“Aziraphale?” he coughs, pushing himself back as if they’ve just had a bit of a bender and woken up in each other’s arms. It’s happened a few times, nothing sexual, just cuddling through a bad night, and he’s trying to place where the hell they are and why Aziraphale’s dressed like he is. Aziraphale sets aside his glasses, smiling softly at him.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale brushes his tangled curls from his face.

“S-sssorry,” Crowley looks ashamed, shuffling back away from the touch. It was usually him who ends up clinging to the angel in desperation, so it’s always his turn to apologize. He squints, trying to figure out just _how_ fucking drunk he was to miracle up intense, vivid sex dreams, complete with panic attacks, and… is that Lucifer’s aura he feels nearby? What the fuck is going on?

“W-where are we?” Crowley mutters, rubbing his eyes.

“Tadfield,” Aziraphale softly pops the sleep mask off of his throat and considers the incredibly confused creature as his eyes dart around, trying to make sense of things. “Anathema and Electronics are in town, and we’re visiting Adam and his friends, remember?”

Crowley frowns. “Oh, oh good,” he rubs his face, shivering a little. “Thought it was Lucifer and I was imagining the last few days, geez.”

“I love you,” Aziraphale smirks, making Crowley chuckle.

“Was there dinner last night? Did I just drink so much that I lost the entire evening?” he slowly sits up, rolling his slightly achy shoulders.

“No, Electronics’ had a fever. We’ll probably do something tonight,” Aziraphale stretches himself, setting his hardback on the bedside table.

“Mmm,” Crowley sighs, considering the way his body tenses and relaxes in the confines of the suit. Lucifer, no, Adam’s aura pulses against his ear from the window and he closes his eyes, rubbing them hard.

“Might be worse with Adam this time,” Crowley sighs.

“Perhaps we should see him before dinner, then. Acclimation?” Aziraphale gently rests his hands over his stomach, steepled.

“Bleh,” Crowley sighs. “Let’s get breakfast, hm?”

* * *

It’s Friday, still a school day, so Crowley and Aziraphale pull up outside of Adam’s school and wait. The Bentley is very determinedly playing _Under Pressure_ in spite of Crowley’s repeated attempts to change the song. He’s sweating and he can tell exactly where Adam is every second that they’re waiting, like he’s tied up and listening and waiting for Lucifer to come back and serve him his punishment.

Adam bounds up with his friends, excited to see the Bentley, and Crowley hides his quivers under a faked sneeze, wiping sweat off his face surreptitiously.

“How was school?” Aziraphale asks, thumbing his ring with soft soothing magic which allows Crowley to sniff and push the Bentley into gear.

The four of them all talk over each other cacophonously as Crowley drives just slightly above the speed necessary to get them all home. They drop off Adam second, and he shoves his head into Crowley’s driver side window, giving him a worried grin as Crowley manages not to rocket over into Aziraphale but stiffly moves back so that there’s a solid amount of space between him and the antichrist.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes lingering over his head, perhaps at the length of his hair, or perhaps he’s seeing a halo or horns or something today.

“Peachy,” Crowley grumbles.

“He’s just got a headache,” Aziraphale offers softly, patting his shoulder and frowning sadly as Crowley jumps hard at that. “Don’t worry.”

“Should you be driving?” Wensleydale pipes up and Crowley rolls his eyes, heaving a big sigh.

“You don’t want to see Aziraphale drive this thing,” he mutters, giving Adam a false grin, “See ya tonight. Do your homework.” Adam scoffs at that, laughing a little as he heads into his house. 

* * *

“Should we tell him?” Aziraphale toys with his beige bow-tie, slipping into more comfortable browns tonight.

“Don’t see how it’d help,” Crowley grumbles, roughly doing up his cufflinks. “It’s me,” he gestures at himself, and Aziraphale frowns at how dull the demon’s eyes look, sluggish and stressed.

“Well, I mean, we could maybe have him help you work through your reaction—”

“No, Aziraphale. I’d rather not. Let’s just get this over with and I’ll…” he grumbles. _I’ll sleep through the weekend. Ugh, I can’t do that can I? _

“You’re just asking for trouble,” Aziraphale sighs, jerking the demon’s collar into place and crisping it a little.

“Always,” Crowley smirks a little at him. He sighs, looking away from him. “At least I don’t faint around him like the real deal. Lucifer’s just more… _on_ than he is. Adam’s usually okay, he’s much lighter, it’s just… seeing him again is making it hard to stand, I think.”

“I know,” Aziraphale sighs, softly adjusting the tuck of his shirt. “Well, if you need to step out, just let me know,” he rocks his wrist and points to his ring which makes Crowley chuckle.

“I love you,” Crowley chuckles, nipping in a quick kiss as Aziraphale looks up at him curiously.

* * *

They show up a little fashionably late to the dinner, though they’re not the latest. Shadwell and Madame Tracy have called ahead stating that they’ll probably be unable to make it until Saturday, perhaps Sunday. Shadwell’s terrible at travelling in the cold.

Electronics’ mom is still around, surprisingly, though Anathema keeps frowning deeply at her and shooing her away from her sick partner.

Crowley feels a deep pang of empathy and pity as he finally catches sight of Electronics sniffling at the small kitchen table. He’s pink with a terrible cold, and worse than that, he’s drowning. He keeps looking at Anathema and his mother with so much pain in his eyes and chest, and Crowley can hear the message so bloody clear because he’s seen it a million times before: _I can’t tell you, you won’t love the real me, I’ll just keep this to myself even though it’s going to kill me_.

Aziraphale pats his shoulder, looking a little sad and shaking his head.

“I’ll see to the kids, then?” he asks softly, taking the packages that Crowley was carrying in, belated Christmas gifts for the couple.

“Mmm,” Crowley sighs, cricking his neck and shrugging out of his duster. “If you would,” he nods, wincing along with Electronics as Brian screws up and hollers _NEWT! _again. Well, it’s not a holler, but it would feel like that to him right now. Brian’s not intentionally doing it, just flubbing stupidly, confused as Electronics’ mom keeps stuffing her hand on her hip and sniffing _Newton_ and _my Newt._ Pepper and Adam repeatedly flick Brian’s ears, snarling _Thou-Shalt-Not-Touch-Electronics_ _you utter dweeb_ but it’s all very confusing.

The name was a cute nod to something between the couple, and it had come out very much on accident. One day when they were having their weekly or monthly or _whenever_ skype call, Newt logged on and forgot to change his screenname from _Thou-Shalt-Not-Touch-Electronics _back to _Witchfound Pulsifier_, as he’d been going by since the apocalypse. He’d been utterly mortified as all the children bobbed up and down and begged to know what it meant and where it came from and-and-and. Crowley had considered stepping in, even though he was usually purposefully on push-to-talk with his webcam off, working with his plants during the calls, but Anathema had thundered into view in Electronics’ room and shouted at the lot of them to _quiet down, his name is Electronics and I will hear no other name for him, do you hear?_

There’d been a little negotiation, some determinedly avoiding where the name had come from by both Anathema and Electronics, and an acknowledgement that, _yes_, _this name will be sticking outside of these calls when we see each other in person, do I make myself perfectly clear?_

Crowley smiles softly at Anathema as he passes, and even though the kitchen didn’t have a door, it does now, and he not-so-quietly slams it on the cacophony in the den so that it’s just Electronics and him in the kitchen dotted with dusty fans of dried flowers and herbs.

“Sucks to come back home and have a cold, to boot,” Crowley pulls two wine coolers from the back of the fridge, not his preferred drink but he pulls _what would Electronics want to drink right now_ and it’s what the universe offers up. “Not taking any medication that’ll fritz with this?” he waggles the light pink fizzy drink at Electronics who looks wretched, red-rimmed eyes ticking between the bottles and Crowley.

“No,” he pulls the wine cooler from Crowley’s extended hand roughly and wrenches the cap off, drinking down nearly half of it in one go. “What do you want?” he grumbles, looking sourly around the kitchen.

“Just thought you could use a break,” Crowley sniffs, opening and sipping his wine cooler.

“You don’t even know,” Electronics leans his head against his palm, and closes his eyes, exhaling wetly.

“I might have an idea,” Crowley offers softly, tilting his head and gently unfurling the gendered truth in his chest that would allow him to ease Electronics back from his self-imposed exile. Electronics’ eyes flick over him, spooked, and he knocks back the rest of his drink in another go.

“You’re a demon,” he scowls, and Crowley chuckles. “Right?” he winces, feeling Crowley’s soft acceptance and sincerity and it’s so seductive. He can’t allow himself that.

“S’pose I’m a lot of things,” Crowley sighs, toying with the peeling label on his bottle. “Right now, I’m… well, I’m me,” he grins ferally, and Electronics’ eyebrows shoot up as he’s suddenly invited into understanding Crowley’s genderfluid nature. “It’s a good thing,” he soothes, as Electronics looks away, tears helplessly falling down his cheeks.

“It’s not,” Electronics bites out, and Crowley feels Anathema doing something that scratches on the protections he’s wrapped them in, but Aziraphale’s hand quickly comes forward and pulls hers away.

Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s not _easy_. It’s not painless, but,” he shrugs, “it’s worth it for just being able to exist without wanting to crawl out of your skin. And you’re allowed that.” He points at Electronics as he gives him a pained look. “You can take up the space to be yourself,” he chuckles softly, biting his lip as he realizes he’s sounding a little like Aziraphale and Leonard schooling him on _deserving_.

“I don’t even know who I am,” Electronics rubs his temples, letting his hair hide his face. He’s currently wearing an awkward page-boy cut which practically screams ‘I’m having doubts about my gender!’

Crowley shrugs a little, swirling his wine cooler and letting the silence stretch out. “Give yourself some time to figure it out,” he offers after taking a long sip. “There’s no harm in taking your time.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” Electronics’ snaps angrily. “I should bloody-well know already.”

Crowley laughs dryly, smacking his knees and unable to stop himself even as Electronics gawps at him. “I’m 6,000 years old, technically, _technically_,” he giggles a little, holding a finger up, “Technically I’m probably _fourteen billion_ years old, but time wasn’t really _on_ for a long time so.” He shrugs, quirking his nose with another smirk. Electronics’ looks faintly horrified at this but also quite interested, nodding for him to continue. “Even I don’t know who I am. I don’t have it figured out. One day at a time, that’s it. That’s the story. You’ll live, and you’ll love, and you’ll change. And that’s life. _Let yourself live_, Electronics Pulsifier,” he gently touches his chin, a soft blessing transferring without conscious thought.

Electronics gulps audibly, moving to take a fortifying gulp of his wine cooler but starting as it’s still empty. Crowley chuckles, shaking his head.

“Can’t hold this much longer,” he waves at the kitchen. “Time to face the music. N-not! Not like that,” he gestures, quelling, as Electronics gives him a horrified look. “Just compose yourself a little, door’s gonna disappear in a minute or so and we’re gonna pretend we were just chumming about… I don’t know, your time in America?” he shrugs.

“S-sure,” Electronics nods slightly, eyes darting around the kitchen rapidly.

“You can always call Aziraphale and I, too. You’re not in this alone,” Crowley nods, getting up and letting Electronics have the room to himself for a moment.

“Thanks,” he sniffs. 

* * *

Anathema pounces on Crowley, pinning him in the walk-in dry goods cupboard with a knife to his throat as he slinks out. “Hi, hello,” Crowley coughs as Aziraphale rolls his eyes fiercely in the background.

“If you hurt him, so help me,” Anathema growls and oh, if Electronics could see her now, he’d have no doubt in his mind.

“Tryin’ to help actually?” he chuckles lightly, and the charm finally pops, Electronics stepping out with a cup of tea, something steeled behind his eyes as he smiles down at his mother.

“Oh, uh,” Electronics’ eyes dart between Crowley and Anathema tucked in the little closet next to the kitchen, hidden from the children yelling about something from a video game. “Anathema,” he says softly, gently putting a hand to her shoulder, “put the knife down.” Electronics’ mother is peering around his shoulder, concerned, and this is going to just get _worse_, so Crowley waves his wrist and the kids accidentally kick the sofa across the room as they’re doing something, making a big bang which distracts her.

Anathema glares back at him and he gives her another cheesy smile, but she lets him go, slotting her bread knife away with a glower and lets Electronics lead her away.

Crowley sighs deeply, sinking back against the wall and grumbling as Adam’s boisterous energy crowds against him even though he’s not directly interacting with him.

“How’re you doing?” Aziraphale steps closer, huddling the two of them for a moment so that Crowley can breathe.

“Delightful,” Crowley grumbles, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “C’mon,” he drags an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder and puts a bracing smile on his face.

Dinner ends up being pizza, not the best pizza, but it’s edible and it’s hot, and they all manage to put away a lot of it. Aziraphale bores the daylights out of Electronics’ mother, tempting her to go home so obviously that Anathema has trouble hiding her barking laughter at it. He succeeds, because he does know what he’s doing what with doing it in Crowley’s stead all those years.

Crowley distracts Brian through most of the evening, cementing _Electronics,_ not Newt, and also introducing him to bands that might be easier to play on an acoustic guitar since he’s been struggling with all the synthy stuff that he and his friends listen to. Adam mostly lingers around Anathema, rabidly talking about the new conspiracy theories in their favorite magazines. The parents begin arriving to pick everyone up around seven, around the same time Electronics’ mom decides to leave, and everyone left heaves a relieved sigh at the _silence_.

“Do you think Shadwell and Tracy are actually going to make it this time?” Anathema asks, plucking up Electronics’ empty mug and going to refill it. They’ve had a bad habit of skipping out on their meetings, getting ‘tied up’ in more ways than one. They’d at least made it to Adam’s birthday, although Anathema and Electronics hadn’t been able to.

“Probably not,” Aziraphale sniffs. “Big blizzard in our neck of the woods,” he gestures.

“S’pose we could drive up and say hi,” Electronics mumbles. He doesn’t look too thrilled about it.

Anathema shrugs, setting down his new cup of tea and kissing his forehead. “We don’t have to,” she tilts up his chin, giving him a fortifying smile. “Not with this cold you’ve got,” she bops his nose with a smirk and Electronics looks suitably embarrassed with a rumpled smile.

“S’pose we should turn in,” Crowley stretches, and Aziraphale chuckles.

“Oh, we didn’t open the gifts,” Anathema starts, glancing up at them.

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale nods. Anathema rushes over to the table where they’re stacked, and Aziraphale frowns at Crowley. There are three presents, one from Aziraphale for each of them and one for Anathema from Crowley. Aziraphale had quietly reminded him a few weeks ago about getting a present for Electronics and it had just sailed in one ear and out the other. He gives Aziraphale a wan smile, and a fourth package muscles in under Aziraphale’s present to Anathema as Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Oh, can you go get our gifts?” Anathema turns to Electronics, who nods at Crowley and Aziraphale as they both look startled. They’d waved off all offers for presents at holidays, even cementing it with a little magical _push _for the kids and their families, because they’re both so bloody old and burdened with possessions by this point. They already have closets and cupboards full of useless knickknacks, and while the kids might mean well, that Snoopy ornament just isn’t really something Aziraphale wants or needs. Presents outside of holidays were fine, a gift that struck a chord of _oh, they might like that_ would be welcome, but a gift fisted over due to a sense holiday necessity was just not worth the effort involved.

Anathema settles, divvying up the packages into two piles, one for her and one for where Electronics was sitting and smiling a little eerily at them.

“Sorry, we, uh, couldn’t really figure out how to wrap it,” Electronics hefts over a large, prehistoric fern with some difficulty to Crowley.

“Oh,” he breathes, “oh wow.” He looks over at Aziraphale, mouth agape, because he’d lost this. He’d lost this very plant in a fire a very long time ago and _how?_

Aziraphale looks at Anathema with a furrowed brow. “Where did you find that?” He doesn’t manage to get the accusatory tone out of his voice at all.

“We stole it from the redwood forest,” she grins. “I knew it belonged to you,” she points at Crowley who’s unconsciously hugging the pot to his chest and doing his best not to cry.

“Thanks,” Crowley hisses, hiding his face in the fronds.

“Uhm,” Electronics awkwardly offers a package wrapped in cloth to Aziraphale.

“Don’t let him touch that,” Anathema points at Crowley. Aziraphale squints down at a very holy book, and glowers up at the witch who looks entirely too pleased with herself. It’s an illuminated, apocryphal bible, one of the few that Aziraphale had scribed himself while in the scriptoriums. His handwriting was pretty terrible, and he had complained about hang overs and other little bullshit throughout the text, marking it as a discard because Heaven had requested that he throw one wrench in, lest humans get too _idolatrous_ or obsessed with wealth or something. It hadn’t been Gabriel who ordered it, someone lower down, and it might have mystified him had he not been very jaded and unhappy at the time. The process had been a little therapeutic for him, and he’d promptly thrown it down a deserted well once enough time had passed, treating it like a note you write to someone then burn up before you send it.

“You’re crazy,” Crowley squawks, squinting up at her, and she giggles for a second before she suddenly reaches over and gropes for Electronics shoulder, paling so suddenly that her freckles look like pockmarks.

“Are you alright?” Electronics takes off her glasses, holding her and looking wildly at the ruffled angelic and demonic pair as if they might help. She has fits sometimes what with the magic, but she usually calls them to herself; they don’t just crop up out of nowhere like this. “Anathema, Anathema?”

Aziraphale wraps the book up and gets over to her before Crowley can set down the huge pot, and she latches onto him the second that he gets close. She’s foaming at the mouth a little, and he smooths the sweaty hair on her brow, squinting to see where the hurt is, how to heal whatever’s wrong with her.

“_Guardians_,” she rasps in a voice too deep for her human form, and both Crowley and Aziraphale still. “_You’re. Guardians._”

“Shh,” Aziraphale hisses, laying blessings hot and fast over her flesh to try and ease the prophecy that’s burning her up from the inside out, “Shh dear, just relax.” Crowley holds her shoulder, needing to help too and their combined soothing allows her to swoon and fall back, alive but feverish.

Electronics looks up at them with horror and fear in his eyes.

“Tends to run in the blood,” Crowley shrugs, which just makes him more confused. “Just skipped, what, a hundred generations or something?” he smirks at Aziraphale who is still smoothing healing into her sizzling brow.

“Prophecy,” Crowley adds, when Aziraphale doesn’t elaborate because he’s still concentrating.

“Will she be alright?” Electronics quivers, hands stuttering around her as he wants to help.

“Yes,” Aziraphale grits, shunting her magic down hard with gritted teeth. “_Yes, stay down you insufferable child_, _it is not worth your life_,” he growls through his teeth and Crowley scoffs. He gently caresses her face to try to sooth the struggle between the two of them and she coughs, her eyes finally fluttering open.

She groans as she looks up at the two of them, and she can see them for what they are, wheels and wings of eyes, a dragon too incredibly large and iridescent to fit in this room.

“Shit,” she blinks blindly at the angelic and hellish beings wavering in front of her like a mirage.

“I don’t think that language is entirely necessary,” Aziraphale tuts, and Crowley jostles his shoulder with a chuckle.

“If you _idiots_,” she squints, jabbing her glasses painfully back onto her face and plucking up her irritable vigor like a shield, “hadn’t stopped me, I could’ve gotten it all!”

“You probably would’ve died,” Crowley gently pokes her glasses, miracling the one arm back into place so that they sit on her face correctly. “How’s the eyes?” he wiggles his shoulders a little. “Seeing things still?” Electronics moans in fear at that point and faints himself, making Aziraphale sigh hotly.

“You, you both look… human,” she grumbles. “What did you do?” she shakes her wrist and glowers at Aziraphale.

“Just put a bandage on it for now,” Aziraphale sighs, peering over Electronics and resorting his limbs so that he won’t hurt himself when he comes to. “You’ll be back to normal in a few days.”

“It was important!” she tries to stand up indignantly and falls back with a yelp as the room swims.

“They always want you to think they are,” Crowley chuckles. “Let it simmer a bit, that one was too hot off the presses,” he bops her shoulder affectionately.

She bites her lip, brow furrowing as she thinks hard, and bolts down the cooling remains of Electronics’ tea. She slowly begins regaining some of her color as Aziraphale steps back and Electronics struggles upright.

“Anathema?” he sniffs, vision swimming a little and he shakes his head.

“Mmhmm,” she pats his knee, and shakes herself.

“I’m afraid our gifts will pale in comparison,” Aziraphale sighs, tucking his text into his jacket and into a display case, safe in the shop.

“Right,” Electronics blinks down incomprehensively at the packages in front of them. He plucks up Crowley’s gift first, at the same time that Anathema plucks the near-identical package up on her stack from Aziraphale. They’re both wrapped in thin brown-paper, and with an easy rip, they reveal near-identical cable-knit sweaters in a medium teal that Anathema liked. Aziraphale glowers daggers at Crowley who harrumphs, shaking his head and looking away. An ostensibly gender-neutral sweater in Electronics’ size that matches his partner’s would actually be quite fortifying, a small way to blur gender without stepping too far out of his comfort zone.

“Oh, they’re quite soft,” Electronics bites his lip, fingering Anathema’s as well.

“T-thank you,” Anathema nods, smiling fondly at Electronics as he looks genuinely excited, shaking out the sweater with a small smile.

She plucks up the awkwardly wrapped, awkwardly shaped package that is Crowley’s gift, feeling it with a confused smile on her face.

“I hope this isn’t what I think it is,” she smirks and Crowley quirks his brow at her.

“Well open it, and find out,” he tosses his head. Electronics pulls up Aziraphale’s package, jiggling it a little and frowning at the sound of many small pieces inside.

Anathema rips off the paper and far-too-much tape with some difficulty, revealing a dark brown leather sheath and belt for her knife and her brows shoot up. “Oh,” she looks up at the demon with an assessing look.

“What’d you think it was?” Crowley squints as she begins inspecting the belt and straps.

“Nothing,” she flushes, biting her lips and Aziraphale chuckles a little as Crowley and Electronics continue to look a little confused.

“Look, you’ll hurt yourself if you keep it like you do now,” Crowley gestures towards her waist.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” she giggles a little, glancing over as Electronics begins ripping off the clean and pristine wrapping paper off of his gift. His face breaks out in an amazed beam as he unveils a large box holding a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that, once completed, would create a model Hawker Hurricane.

“Wow! I always wanted one of these as a kid,” he grins.

“My mom had one that made a carousel,” Anathema gently tilts the package so that she can read the side. Crowley hones in suddenly on the fern at that point, and prowls off with it in his arms. The sounds of angry misting come from the kitchen as Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Suppose we should all turn in. You both could use some rest,” he nods at the couple on the couch.

“Thanks,” Electronics nods, “Yeah, it was…” He wants to say _it was a good time_, or something like that, but well, was it?

“It was a night,” Anathema stands with a slight tremor, holding out a hand to shake Aziraphale’s. “I’ll call you once this stupid bandage comes off,” she gives him a sharp smile and Aziraphale chuckles.

“I look forward to it,” his smile is only a little smug; it’s mostly just fond.

“Hey, if she ever writes a book, can you make sure Aziraphale gets a copy?” Crowley jerks his chin at Electronics, and jabs a thumb at Aziraphale as he begins carrying the hefty fern out to the car. Electronics chuckles softly shaking his head.

* * *

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t come up with your own gift,” Aziraphale sniffs, drumming his fingers on the countertop as Crowley puts the finishing touches on their cocktails, carefully resting brandied cherries on skewers on the edges of their glasses.

“He’s… having a sweater like hers is the best gift I could give,” Crowley sighs. “I don’t expect you to understand,” he grumbles, and jabs a glass towards the angel.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs, “Okay, you have a point, that is a... that is good.” He gives him a sour look which Crowley chuckles at. He offers his glass for a toast, and Crowley smiles and gently tinks their glasses together.

“D’ya know what she thought my gift was?” Crowley asks after taking a sip, frowning a little.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale grins wickedly, and Crowley quirks his brow.

“What? Now you’ve gotta tell me, angel,” he leans forward conspiratorially, the Manhattan finally taking the edge off of not-Lucifer leaning over his shoulder constantly.

“I believe she thought you were giving her some sort of… harness,” he sniffs, and distinctly keeps his eyes away from the demon as he snorts and coughs, nearly toppling his drink.

Crowley sputters, wiping his mouth and blinking tears away at having alcohol in his lungs. “S’pose it’s a harness for her stupid knife,” Crowley grumbles, shaking his head.

“How do you think she found that book?” Aziraphale asks, quirking a brow at Crowley since he was, at times, a much better book wrangler than himself.

“Family ties, I imagine,” Crowley shrugs. “Had the look of something someone just kept up in their attic or cellar. What was it?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sniffs. “One of my works from my time in the scriptorium.”

“Oh,” Crowley’s brows raise as he considers that. “S’pose it could be something prophetic or whatever, dunno,” he waves. “Old things with a little magic in them end up doing weird things.”

“Like us?” Aziraphale smirks, and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Could I, perhaps,” Aziraphale lowers his voice a tick, leaning in closer to Crowley, “tempt you?” He wiggles his brows suggestively and Crowley narrowly misses spitting his drink out again.

“Uh,” Crowley chuckles nervously. “We’d have to get out of Tadfield,” he offers quietly, eyes ducked to the countertop.

“Oh?” Aziraphale gives him a concerned look.

“Probably shouldn’t drive after this,” he wiggles his half-drunk martini glass at him.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale chews his lip.

“You’ve been drinking too, don’t try to suggest that you can drive,” Crowley smirks.

“Perhaps we’ll have to rent a room farther away next time,” he purrs, leaning his head on the back of his hand.

“Mmm,” Crowley chuckles. “It’sss a thought.”

“Does… does Adam bother you that much?” Aziraphale asks, peering at the demon as he considers his drink.

“Think it’sss just a… relapssse,” he sniffs, grimacing at the slurring. “Ssseeeing him again, brought it all back,” he sighs, shivering a little. “The fact that he’ss _ssstilll_ on ‘bout the throne thing,” he tosses his head irritably, blinking rapidly and missing his glasses.

“Is that… when you were a prince?” Aziraphale asks, sipping his glass thoughtfully.

Crowley sighs deeply, eyes dull on the countertop. He’s just shot full-on back to sobriety and it has nothing at all to do with a miracle of his own. Adam’s just gotten a little tetchy at something and Crowley’s shoulders and back tense without any conscious thought.

“I’d rather not talk about it right now,” he offers tightly, digging a hand into his hair and fervently hoping Adam would chill out and stop fuming sometime before bed. If he was the sort of kid who would stay up all night fuming, then _fuck_ this was gonna be a long night.

“Come here,” Aziraphale offers a hand out where Crowley is staring very pointedly, and Crowley’s serpent eyes tick up at him grumpily. “Come here, I’m not, I’m going to comfort you, nothing else,” he sighs, shaking his head. Crowley grumbles, slinking forward next to Aziraphale. Aziraphale softly pulls his head down to his neck and wraps his other arm around his back, sheathing them in a cloud of wings.

“Oh,” Crowley gasps, relaxing hard into him as the pulsing ache of tension is suddenly swept away and replaced with the soft sound of rain in the distance.

“I think I’ll have to have a talk with him about keeping himself a bit more wrapped up,” Aziraphale grumbles, petting Crowley’s hair.

“Thought it wasn’t good to bundle it up,” Crowley jeers, making a soft surprised noise as Aziraphale easily picks him up and carts him over to the bedroom.

“Well, one must have propriety. And moderation. Broadcasting your row to the entire world is a bit much, even for a boy of twelve,” he huffs.

“You can feel it too?” Crowley asks softly, beginning to drift off in the jellied relaxation of Aziraphale’s soothing breathing and wings around him.

“How couldn’t I, dear boy?”


	15. Chapter 15

Crowley drives Aziraphale over to Adam’s sometime in the afternoon the next day, not long after Tracy calls to inform them that no, they sadly won’t be able to make it this time. Crowley waits outside, leaning against the Bentley, feeling foolish and ashamed but without having Aziraphale’s comfort bleeding through his ring he would probably be curled up in a ball hyperventilating. Adam’s not even upset today, he’s just _there_ and that very fact is loud, like he’s howling at the heavens that he exists.

Crowley’s toying with his phone, trying to decipher the eruption of emojis in the Them’s group chat when something… smells off. He perks up, letting his senses pool out and he realizes there’s a few demons in the area, lurking rather impressively. They’re interestingly positioned, almost like a pentagram centered around the Young’s house. _Hmm_.

He’s texting Aziraphale his findings, vaguely aware of someone very large across the street. When the someone in question pauses and suddenly crosses very purposely towards him, Crowley tosses his phone and squawks embarrassingly in shock.

“How funny to see _you_ here,” Gabriel grins, something manic in his eyes.

_Oh shit_, Crowley thinks for the two seconds of rational thought he’s allowed before Gabriel grabs him by the shirt and yanks him from the side of Bentley.

“Crowley, was it?” Gabriel crows, slamming him bodily into a minivan, and Crowley feels a number of ribs crack under the blistering force with which Gabriel shoves him into the metal and plastic and glass.

“You’re not screwing this up for me this time,” Gabriel growls in his face, and drops his hold on his chest for a second to bring the blazing scepter in his other hand into Crowley’s gut. Crowley doubles over, trying to process, trying to get a grip and _do something_, when Gabriel grabs him by the throat and punishingly pins him there. “It’s the _plan_, fuck you and your ineffable bull_sh_—” he makes a tight frustrated noise and tightens his grip on Crowley’s throat brutally, choking the air from his lungs. Crowley scrabbles his clawed hands against Gabriel’s iron grip, but it does nothing, he’s as made of marble as Lucifer and every other large, imposing and terrible figure in his long, long life. Crowley's vision begins to blur and dim, leaving him with an unwanted glimpse into Elsewhere and he quails at the sight.

Gabriel’s eyes are off, not quite purple anymore, leaning almost towards a human-ish dark blue which some romantics might call indigo, and his wings, oh, his wings. There’s so many of them, like Aziraphale, but they’re burning as he watches, painfully curling to ash gray and black with a slow smolder.

Gabriel is falling. He has been for some time by the look of it.

Something like pity or sympathy passes over Crowley’s face at that and Gabriel snarls angrily and bodily hurls the demon away from him down the block.

“You don’t just _change _the plan,” Gabriel yells, and his largeness and his bravado really remind Crowley of Lucifer, so without really thinking, he’s struggling up to stand at attention obediently. _Yes m’lord, wouldn’t want to get in the way of you hitting me again, wouldn’t dream of it_. His head is swimming and he sways a little, a tire iron incongruous in his left hand. He manages to duck the next swing of the scepter, more of a dizzy stumble than anything he’d coordinated. Gabriel snarls murderously and spins, nearly destroying his shoulder with another swipe. The sparring is mostly clumsy guards with the tire iron, each of which just manages to jar his entire body and broken ribs, and Gabriel occasionally attempting to collar him again as Crowley stumbles drunkenly away.

Crowley fights hot, his magic, when it’s up and out and being used, blazes like suns and stars, and apparently Gabriel’s is electric, sparking and sizzling like a horrifying electric storm. The ice and the snow on the asphalt have melted in a halo around them as they repeatedly clash, although it’s pretty clear who’s going to win as Crowley’s knees buckle after a particularly brutal slam which breaks something in his wrist. It’s a surprise to both of them when things go entirely ice cold and there is a creature of eyes and intense, inscrutable, seething anger barreling into Gabriel.

Gabriel’s laughing a little as he parries Aziraphale’s sword, something dawning in his face at the fact that Aziraphale is rushing to defend _Crowley_, that Aziraphale is here _with_ Crowley, that Aziraphale is the most bloodthirsty he’s been since he cut a searing swath through Hell’s ranks for a lost wing.

“That’s how it is then?” he laughs breathlessly before Aziraphale manages to break his guard and wrench his sword through Gabriel’s side, making him howl in pain.

Crowley struggles to stand, feeling the need to help. He senses the focus of the demon’s pentagram change related to something of a complicated gesture from Gabriel’s unoccupied hand. _That’s how it is, huh_, Crowley thinks with a sneer, _no wonder he’s falling_. The spell latches onto Aziraphale with a jerk, though the angel’s a little busy to notice it himself. It’s a draining thing, built to make Adam stressed and pliable, easy to manipulate, perhaps even enough to kickstart Armageddon again.

There’s a pained shout that makes Crowley’s chest seize as Gabriel’s scepter gains purchase in one of Aziraphale’s wings, cracking and smashing through the fragile bones, and Crowley’s not really thinking clearly past that point. He’s a little concussed, a little hopped up on adrenaline and shock and trauma, and right now there’s five demons who are dead. They just don’t know it yet.

His human legs fail him, nearly making him faceplant into the pavement, so he shifts; six legs and a good slither, that will get him where he needs to go. He honestly forgets how large he is, and he kills the first demon without really meaning to, rolls over him in his haste to get to him and overshoots it by a bit. The next two he properly rips apart like tissue paper, and by that point the rest are scrambling to get away, desperately trying to disentangle themselves from the spell. The fourth succumbs to his silver claws because he can’t get his wrist to do what he wants it to, and the fifth nearly gets away, stumbling and tripping over the spell that they’re still rucked in.

Crowley _pulls_, and he was never a warrior, never built for it, but every angel had been given some sort of weapon, a gift of righteousness, and Crowley honestly never really thought much about it because at the points when he’s needed something, he’s just used whatever was at hand or miracled himself out of it. The tire iron bends, and _bends_, and with a low, musical twang, a glittering red arrow sings across the sky like a shooting star and finds its target with a shower of hissing sparks.

The angels are still fighting, but Aziraphale seems to be winning now. Gabriel is bloodied and dimming, his ashy wings drooping as Aziraphale drives through his guard and slices through his ornamental, cloth armor. Gabriel had never been on the battlefield, funnily like Crowley in that respect. He’d preferred to let others do his dirty work, playing the sleek boss with a pair of muscling toughs on either side of him to ensure the message was crystal clear. Sure, he has the _potential_, he’s a fucking archangel and incredibly large and powerful by nature, but size alone does not bequeath martial talent.

Crowley slithers down the hillside, coiling himself around the two to allow a more centralized arena, an intimidation tactic Lucifer used to force him into. _Even if you beat me, there’s a beast ready and willing to destroy you once I fall to my knees;_ _you can’t, you won’t win here_. He leans into it without guilt this time, scrunching close and sure in the fact that he will easily crush Gabriel should Aziraphale stumble. There’s simply no other alternative.

Aziraphale pulls back, panting and guarding as Gabriel sways. “Be gone,” he growls, “Be gone and leave us be, Gabriel.” 

Gabriel laughs dryly, coughing on it. “Is this the plan, then?” he asks, sounding distant and forlorn. “Why, Raphael? Just tell me why,” he looks up as he falls to his knees, and the smolder consuming his wings increases in speed.

“Questions like that are dangerous,” Crowley husks, looming behind the angel’s right side, protecting his injured wing.

“It’s ineffable,” Aziraphale puffs. “Please just leave us be, Gabriel,” he pleads, finally starting to sound more like his old self.

“It’s not fair,” Gabriel whispers petulantly, tears on his cheeks, and he sinks down to rest his palms on the asphalt but something changes, and he disappears as if a wind just brushed him away, leaving ash and a few blackened feathers behind.

A tiny, human hand touches somewhere around Crowley’s side, and he starts so badly that he nearly crushes the boy, slithering to hide behind Aziraphale like a scared child hiding in their mother’s skirts.

“Wow,” Adam breathes, eyes glittering red-brown with his frayed control. He’s the only living thing that can see them for miles right now, glamour rather intuitively broadcasting _nothing to see here, move along_ to everything else. “That was so cool,” he breathes, and Aziraphale sighs deeply, palming his face with a shaking hand.

* * *

Without the pentagram of demons, Adam is so bloody tolerable that Crowley could live with him. Well, no, not really, but he’s much less bothersome to be around and right now he’s insinuating himself in their cottage as Aziraphale carefully splints Crowley’s wrist so that Crowley can splint his wing.

They’re still shaky with shock, but it’s mostly just making them numb and quiet while Adam natters around the cottage with incessant questions and spiraling anxious energy.

“Where’d he go?” Adam asks, looping around the living room for the fifth time.

“Somewhere else,” Crowley grumbles, hissing as Aziraphale carefully feels over his broken ribs.

“But why?” Adam is being surprisingly circumspect, staring at the ceiling and pausing at the watercolor over the fireplace as Crowley’s got his shirts off and is in just a bra and jeans. Crowley can’t really bring himself to be too self-conscious, it’s just his body and it’s in an incredible amount of pain right now, but some part of him is squalling about how _this is bad, what will he think, don’t want another lynch mob_. Aziraphale is unconsciously shielding Adam’s view of him with a wing anyway, but Crowley’s still tense and shocky and not processing his surroundings very well at the moment.

“Can we save this discussion for later?” Aziraphale grits icily, feeling over the bruise on Crowley’s stomach now.

“Why do I feel better now that he’s gone?” he chews his lip, looking over Aziraphale’s wings again, including the one drooping, bloodied one. He’s asked twice how many wings the average angel has, and neither of them have dignified it with an answer, sullenly looking away from his insistent eyes.

“Demons had a spell going to ruin your cont-_hsssss,_” Crowley hisses in pain as Aziraphale gently tilts his chin up to take in the bruise around his neck.

“Oh,” Adam sniffs.

“We’re going to need ice packs,” Aziraphale sighs, knowing the cottage won’t be equipped with them and that he’s probably going to have send Crowley out to get them considering how much trouble it had been to work himself into the Bentley to get here. He waves to wrap Crowley in a quilt so that he’ll stop looking so desperately uncomfortable at being exposed.

“I can get you some,” Adam brightens up and Aziraphale frowns at him. “I get scuffed up a lot, and we still have some old ones left over from when Sarah broke her knee in dance class,” he rubs his nose.

“That would be appreciated, dear,” Aziraphale nods diplomatically. Adam tears out of the cottage, curls bouncing.

“Your turn,” Crowley grits a smile at him. He has to miracle in most of the supplies to splint his wing because the limb is much larger than any human arm or leg. Besides the wing, Aziraphale is mostly just bruised thankfully.

“I want to go home,” Crowley whispers into Aziraphale’s coat, wincing at his aching ribs as he helplessly embraces the angel. “Let’s just go home,” he husks into Aziraphale’s mess of curls. They’re actually starting to get a little long for once, curling and tumbling at his collar in a frizzy mess.

“I can’t put my wings away, dear,” Aziraphale sighs, petting his back carefully, “It was a struggle just getting in and out of the Bentley to get here.” 

Crowley makes a disconsolate noise into his neck.

* * *

Adam brings them perhaps twenty-five ice-packs sourced from his friends, along with two casserole dishes, one from his parents and another from Pepper’s, as well as a robust medical kit from Brian’s family. They don’t really know _why_ the odd pair of godparents are ill and stuck in their cottage, and whenever they try to think too much about it, their minds kind of gloss and skip over it. They’d been compelled to help, nonetheless.

Aziraphale carefully wraps the ice packs around Crowley’s ribs and stomach with pet wrap since they can just keep miracling them cold. Crowley looks miserable whenever Aziraphale glances at his throat, Gabriel’s thumbprints detailed there with surprising accuracy and Aziraphale wishes he’d just destroyed the archangel instead of trying to be merciful. Crowley obliges him by holding an ice pack to his throat occasionally, though he has to stop and gulp away panic after a few moments of it.

Aziraphale’s shoulders and chest are a mess of bruises. He’s actually cracked a rib as well, though they’d missed it earlier. Crowley secures a number of icepacks onto him as well, and they sink miserably into bed. Aziraphale has to lie on his stomach thanks to his wings, smothering Crowley in a very warm feathery blanket.

They doze fitfully with the pain for the rest of the day. They’ve still got asphalt grit and blood and everything else on them because the idea of bathing in the tiny, homey bathroom with just a tub that would barely contain Aziraphale _without_ his wings was just too much to deal with.

As the sun sets, Aziraphale stirs to go force them both to drink a healthy amount of water and maybe dig into the casseroles. It’s pretty mediocre British cooking, and as they stare listlessly at the dishes for a long set of moments, Crowley finally huffs and tugs Aziraphale to the bathroom.

They resolve to bathe Aziraphale first what with how hard it’s going to be with his wings. Crowley’s delicately preening and removing damaged feathers on his broken wing when someone begins insistently banging on their front door. He patiently tries to ignore it for about ten minutes, but it’s getting to the point where he’s worried that they’ll knock down the door and then they’ll have to pay for damages, and _ugh_.

He’s got water all sopped down his front and his thin burgundy sweater is oddly lumpy with his unbound breasts and multitudinous ice packs.

“What?” he snaps before he’s even got the door open, and then he sees Anathema looking up at him murderously. “What?” he asks softer as she barges in, calling for Electronics to follow her. He’s carrying a number of brown greasy bags in a box which he proffers.

“She, uh, she said you might like these?” he sniffs, eyes flicking over Crowley's breasts and the ease of his presentation with something akin to longing before he can stop himself. Crowley recognizes the smell of the fish and chips that they’d had last time, and yeah, that would be better than green bean casserole, wouldn’t it?

“Thanks,” Crowley grumbles, gesturing stiffly for him to bring them in.

“We’re a little busy,” Crowley mutters as he returns to the living room. Anathema is tearing around the cottage, poking her head in closets and down hallways.

“Where _is_ he?” Anathema hisses.

“He’s not decent and he won’t be for a while,” Crowley states dully, and that finally stops her. She pauses, taking in the pink pet wrap around his wrist and the bruises around his throat.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Gabriel,” Crowley shrugs. He’s feeling rather monosyllabic at the moment, and would like to get back to helping Aziraphale through his bath so that he can finally get clean as well.

She squints at him, “I. I need to see him.”

“Fine,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face. “Give me a moment.” He walks into the bathroom where Aziraphale has managed to scrub his body mostly clean. He’s black and blue with telltale indents of Gabriel’s scepter all over his shoulders and stomach, though.

“Angel,” Crowley kisses his crown lovingly, “there’s a witch who wants a word with you.”

Aziraphale laughs dryly. “Bring her in then,” he jeers.

Crowley chuckles a little, shaking his head. “Such a bastard,” Crowley mutters to himself.

“Anathema, in here,” he calls, unconsciously placing himself in front of the angel defensively, sprawling against the sink in an attempt to appear nonchalant. He looks coiled and tense, ready to spring into action instead.

Her jaw drops in horror as she takes in Aziraphale’s disordered wings and bruises. “_Christ_,” she hisses, “what the hell happened to you two?”

Aziraphale leans an arm over the edge of the tub, insouciant smirk on his face, “What, pray tell, is so bloody important, my _dear_?”

“I-I,” she stutters, looking between them. “Are you going to be alright?” her eyes flick between the two of them worriedly.

“Been through worse,” Crowley offers after a moment to the beige rug on the floor, shrugging carefully. Electronics peeks around Anathema’s shoulder at that point, and very nearly faints, walking very quickly away to fall onto the couch.

“I. Uhm,” she gulps. “I got more of the prophecy. But it’s, it’s not complete. I don’t think it’s ever going to be,” she chews on her lip.

“And you came to yell at me about it, yes, I see. _Delightful_,” Aziraphale rubs his forehead with forced patience.

“Well, I,” Anathema sighs. “The message is this,” her mouth twists as she pulls something from a hidden pocket somewhere. Crowley smiles a little as he recognizes the belt that he’s given her poking out under her jacket. “’You’re guardians,’” she recites from the creased paper. “And there was more but it’s… too garbled. All I can tell is that you need a ceremony, I think, to make it official?”

“Hmm,” Crowley rubs his chin.

“Guardians of what, exactly?” Aziraphale sighs, leaning back in the tub.

“Uhm,” Anathema sounds rather small which is rare feat. “Us. Everything. It’s, I don’t know,” she rubs her nose. “I’m. It would be easier if you hadn’t stuffed my magic down,” she grumbles without any heat.

“What part of, ‘you will die,’ did you not understand?” Crowley levels her with a glare.

“I really do think you were overreacting,” she puts a fist on her hip, glowering at the demon.

Aziraphale sighs deeply from the tub. “Consider the message received, then,” Aziraphale sinks into the bubbles. “I apologize for the inconvenience, my dear.”

Anathema looks worriedly at them. “Do you… are there doctors for your sorts?” she asks, wincing as Crowley softly holds an ice pack to his throat and his eyes go distant.

“Sure,” Aziraphale waves a hand. “We’ll be fine in a few days dear, don’t fret.”

“Hmm,” Anathema purses her lips and frowns heartily at him.

“Worry all you like,” Crowley coughs a little, drawing the ice pack away. “I need to resplint his wing and then get clean myself. So. Please. _Leave_,” he grits an unkind smile at her, leaning forward to crowd her out of the bathroom.

She turns on her heel, pulling the bathroom door closed, but they don’t hear the sound of the front door closing or a car driving off. They share a look, but they’re both so tired and in pain that they can’t really be bothered to chase off two humans who might want to mother them.

Crowley returns to dully cleaning up the broken wing, mindlessly preening the others after because it’s soothing and he can use something soothing. Aziraphale finds it calming as well, sinking back with a small smile as he watches the demon carefully resort and pet his feathers. Crowley has to stop after the third one due to his wrist aching too much, though.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale huffs in embarrassment after unsuccessfully trying to get out of the tub twice.

“Here, here,” Crowley sighs, hefting him out of the tub inelegantly with just one arm and achy ribs. “Oh, uh, let me get you some clothes, here,” he hands him a fluffy patterned towel and sneaks out of the bathroom to the bedroom. Anathema and Electronics are perched on their couch, talking in hushed tones around a phone, and Crowley just feels _tired_.

Aziraphale’s mostly dry as he helps him into his pants and shirt with a little fussy miracling with the wings, just his pajama set because proper clothes would be too difficult. Splinting the wing a second time is harder, Crowley’s oomph starting to fade so it’s trickier to pull the materials that he needs from thin air.

His bath is less troublesome than he expects, and Aziraphale purposefully draws out rubbing shampoo into his scalp until the demon is oozing with relaxation and nearly asleep. Aziraphale pulls him from the bath and dresses him carefully, reapplying ice packs and resplinting his arm delicately.

As they stumble out of the bathroom, leaning hard on each other, Electronics appears with an anxious smile, clearly doing something he may not exactly want to do but is being asked to by Anathema.

“Come on,” he gently shepherds them into the kitchen where Anathema makes a flourishing, presentative motion towards the box of greasy fast food.

“One of you doesn’t like…” Anathema makes a frustrated noise, rubbing her temple, sick of having her magic so floaty and out of reach. “Something with food,” she squints at them.

Aziraphale points at Crowley as he helps the demon into a chair at the table, making Crowley glower at him.

“Tell the whole world, why don’t you,” Crowley grumbles, pulling the box full of bags of fish and chips to him.

“What, I don’t see why you feel like you can’t tell people about it,” Aziraphale huffs, tossing his head a little stiffly.

“Hmph,” Crowley grumbles, biting into a miracled-warm hunk of battered fish and sighing in pleasure because it’s so much better than the casserole they’d stared at earlier.

Anathema leans back against the counter, watching them with something of a confused frown on her face. She’s thinking of a repeated dream she’s had since she was a child, and she can’t really tell why.

“Gabriel, like the archangel?” Electronics asks, pocketing his ancient flip-phone and standing to lean next to Anathema.

“Pro’bly won’t be for much longer,” Crowley mutters through a handful of fries.

“What?” Anathema starts from her reverie.

“You think so?” Aziraphale looks sadly at the demon.

Crowley nods limply. “Lucifer’s going to rip him to shreds,” he sniffs, rubbing grease off of his chin.

Aziraphale sighs, leaning his head on the back of his hand. “You know, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” he mutters softly.

Crowley stills suddenly, looking panicked. “He knows,” he coughs, eyes wide.

“Who?” Aziraphale frowns.

Crowley’s panting, hands dug into his hair, looking a little crazed. “I’m dead. I’m. It’s over,” he whispers, laughing softly. “It’s over. It’s finally over.”

“Crowley, who knows?” Aziraphale tugs his good arm roughly from his hair and forces their fingers entwined. “Crowley, talk to me,” he leans forward, grabbing the demon’s chin as he keeps gabbling on, terrified.

Crowley glances at the human pair and back to Aziraphale. “Uh,” he mutters. “We uh… we just sent a gift-wrapped package to Lucifer who knows what I really look like,” he whispers to Aziraphale’s throat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinks. “I’m not sure that I see how that’s a bad thing. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Crowley wrenches his hand free from Aziraphale and stands roughly, swaying. “I’m going,” he states, eyes wild, “he can’t have you.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. “_Sit_,” silver eyes catch his yellow ones and Crowley’s body cooperates without thought, thunking roughly into the kitchen chair.

“Would you two mind giving us a little time to ourselves?” Aziraphale smiles sweetly at Anathema, eyes fierce and uncompromising. There’s a split second where Anathema considers putting her foot down, insisting that they’ll need help getting to their room or just need someone around to ensure that they’re alright. The whim melts under Aziraphale’s gaze, and she nods, shaking a little.

“We’ll check on you tomorrow,” she gulps as she roughly tugs on her coat.

“It’s appreciated, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs as Crowley starts hissing as his body shivers, jarring at the broken ribs. They leave promptly, door slamming behind them, and Aziraphale considers the demon.

“Talk to me, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, sounding tired and looking it too, leaning his head on one of his hands. Crowley’s mouth quirks around, and he tries to hug himself, but he can’t with his broken ribs.

“’s nothing,” he whispers, looking away from Aziraphale.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale rolls his eyes so hard that it actually makes his head hurt. “If you think I’ll let you sacrifice yourself for some stupid half-baked reason, I would suggest that you think again, dear,” he points a limp chip at the demon before bringing it to his mouth.

There’s a long period of silence, Crowley limply holding his injured wrist in his lap and looking away from Aziraphale.

“Throne’s not a title,” he offers quietly, eyes darting around the table and over the angel. “It was literal,” he gulps thickly, looking a little terrified to be admitting this.

“Okay,” Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure I understand the implications there, dear.”

“I…” Crowley heaves a defeated sigh. “I’ve hidden it for so long, I think he’d started to believe that I wasn’t…” he looks away from Aziraphale. “Nah, he always knew,” he shivers hard, and grits his teeth at the pain, “who am I kidding?”

Aziraphale watches him, considering the demon for a moment.

“Not to be offensive, Crowley, but you’re a creator. You just look like a creator. A _spectacular_ one, I’d say, but still, I don’t see the problem,” he sips at his glass as Crowley looks bleakly up at him.

“Does the name Behemoth mean anything to you?” Crowley asks so quietly that Aziraphale has to lean in a little, and the demon’s shoulders droop as he cants his head so that his curls mask his face.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale squints. “It’s supposed to be one of the primal beasts, I think? Like Leviathan, earth and sea and sky,” he gestures a little, frowning.

Crowley laughs softly. “That’s what humans made of Lucifer’s claims,” he sniffs. “Made me out like I was better than God herself,” he nearly knocks over his glass as he clumsily grabs for it and Aziraphale stills.

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinks hard.

“He…” Crowley sighs tightly. “He made me make things for him. And… destroy things,” he gulps thickly, and throws back his water sloppily. “He was obsessed with heaven, wanted me to remake his stupid sword, his armor, make myself into an angelic beast for his _angelic_ seat,” he shakes his head. “Always so obsessed with _looks_,” he rubs his hair out of his face, looking bleak.

Aziraphale watches him, a small crease furrowing in his brow. “I left and… made myself small. Hid that part of myself so he would leave me alone,” he looks hard away from the angel. “He’s spent the past however long trying to find the right leverage to get me to come back to him, be _that_ for him again,” he grumbles, poking at his chips.

He looks up at Aziraphale plainly, eyes distant and sad, “He’s got the leverage now.”

“I,” Aziraphale quivers. “What-what do you mean, dear boy?”

“You,” Crowley drops his eyes to the table. “Now it’s only a matter of time,” he sinks miserably on top the table.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale reaches out to caress the demon’s head, tears pricking his eyes. “My love, I won’t allow that to happen,” he says earnestly.

Crowley grumbles uselessly, mouth stuck in his good wrist so he can’t properly complain or refute.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gently tilts his cheek up so that he can catch his eyes. “I’ve fought Lucifer before, my dear. If it comes down to it, I _will_ destroy him to get you back,” he says it with such utter sincerity that Crowley can almost believe it.

But Lucifer always wins. Lucifer always has the upper hand, every time.

“I love you,” Aziraphale awkwardly leans in to kiss his forehead. “And you should know, that means that I _will_ go to the ends of the universe to ensure your safety,” he softly runs his fingers through his curls, “I will not lose you, now or ever again.”

“Lucifer doesn’t lose,” Crowley whispers to the table, “he just waits.” 

“Well, he’ll be waiting for quite a long time, my dear,” Aziraphale gives him a cool smirk. “He doesn’t get to have you, I’m afraid. You’re very much taken,” he chuckles lightly to himself, and pauses a little as something occurs to him.

“Mmm?” Crowley looks up at him.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale sighs, shaking his head. “You should finish that, and then we’ll get some rest, hm?”

* * *

Everything hurts so much worse the next day, and they valiantly try to sleep through it. Sometime midday, the bugles sound announcing Gabriel’s fall, and they just sigh and try to burrow more under the covers at that. Adam and his friends let themselves into the cottage not much later.

They thankfully do not bring more casserole dishes, but they do have a number of board games and Brian’s guitar with them, prepared for a rainy-day in sort of deal. Crowley and Aziraphale manage to struggle upright and engage in some battleship and draughts, although it’s mostly Crowley and Aziraphale playing those games against each other while the Them play some themed version of Monopoly and get loud about different house rules.

Around five, Anathema and Electronics appear with another huge spread of food, this time it’s a number of roast chickens and aluminum trays of mashed potatoes. The kids eat a little, but Aziraphale and Crowley put away the majority of the food and then slink off to bed again.

Aziraphale had only booked the cottage through Sunday, but it’s easy enough to lengthen the stay. Anathema and Electronics cancel their flight and book a later one as well in spite of Aziraphale’s repeated protestations.

They’d planned to meet with Warlock on Tuesday, but Crowley calls to cancel and spends an hour soothing the boy and keeping him from coming up to Tadfield to check on them. Warlock goes around him, of course, and gets the cottage’s address from Adam, appearing on their doorstep on Wednesday.

“H’lo,” Crowley sniffs. His wrist is still splinted, and the bruises around his throat are starting to melt into sickly greens around the edges.

“Nanny,” Warlock’s hand quivers up to his mouth in horror before he crushes Crowley in a painful hug.

“Sss, ribs, ribs, watch the ribs,” he hisses, curling away from him.

“Oh, Warlock, hello,” Aziraphale smiles at him, holding two mugs in his hands. He’s only got two pairs of wings out at the moment, his primary pair and the set with the broken wing. Warlock blinks up at him disbelieving, gawping at the wings which look disturbingly more corporeal than usual.

Warlock’s easier company than Adam, honestly, and they make him tea and help him with his homework. Adam busts in without the rest of his group in the afternoon, and there’s a tense moment where he and Warlock stare at each other.

“A-Adam Young,” Adam holds out his hand, giving him what he hopes is a friendly smile, a little worried that his aura is going to freak him out.

“Warlock Dowling,” Warlock quirks his brow confusedly, shaking his hand. “We already know each other,” he shakes his head, returning to his homework.

“Oh, well, yeah, alright,” Adam nods, eyes flicking over the angel and demon. Whatever amazing lightning strike he’d been expecting to happen doesn’t, and Warlock just goes back to squinting at mathematical theorems with Crowley. Aziraphale gives Adam a sad smile and shakes his head.

“How are you doing, dear?” he asks, drawing him away from the demon who he can’t help but notice still tenses whenever Adam is around.

“Uhm,” Adam’s eyes flick over Aziraphale, scanning over his still drooping wing. “Okay,” he offers lamely.

Aziraphale sighs slightly, smoothing the boy’s hair out of his face without really thinking about it.

“I’m still trying to find you a tutor, but it’s proving more troublesome than I’d thought,” he shakes his head. He’s been calling around and prodding his web of contacts to see if he could find someone who would be willing to help the antichrist hone his talents a little. It all went rather well until they got to the boy’s parentage, why he had the powers he had, and then it always became a resounding _no, no no no **hell** no_. Lucifer wasn’t particularly popular with the fae apparently, and really, the fae had little interest in messing with angelic or demonic affairs anyway knowing it would be to their benefit to stay out of it entirely.

“How’s um,” Adam gestures at Aziraphale’s wing.

“Oh, I think it’ll be well enough that we can go home by the weekend,” he nods, sipping his tea.

“’S good,” Adam nods, watching as Crowley points at something on the page with a sly smile canted at Warlock who looks up at him enthused. He can’t leave well enough alone, and goes to insinuate himself among them, pulling out his homework and striving to prove that he can help, he can do whatever they’re doing _too_.

* * *

Crowley’s healing slower than Aziraphale, and each day with Adam coming over makes him more sluggish, hugging and leaning into Aziraphale for comfort.

Aziraphale _pushes_ and with all the food and sleep they’ve been indulging in, his wing snaps back into place just as he asks. The pain is absolutely intense, and he has to pant doubled-over for quite a while with Crowley quietly supporting him and murmuring _why’d you do that, it’s okay, we can stay._

Crowley refuses to let him put it away for a few hours, gently feeling over the muscles and spots bare of feathers from the bones poking out until he’s content in the fact that it won’t become lame or crippled by what he’s done. He makes Aziraphale flex and move it around quite a bit, and it’s weak and tender, shaking terribly by the time the demon allows him to shunt them away.

Anathema and Electronics bring a tub of macaroni and cheese over for dinner, and when Anathema realizes they’re leaving soon, she unfolds a printout tucked into her back pocket.

“I, uh,” she pushes it across the countertop towards them with a shaking hand. “I’ve had this dream since I was a kid,” she sniffs. “It was comforting, I thought it was—it didn’t mean anything,” she waves a little.

Crowley and Aziraphale frown down at the child’s drawing, considering. There’s a blue orb taking up most of the page, and a black snake-like dragon coiled around it possessively. A humanoid figure with wild hair and a scepter stands behind the orb, one hand laid on the dragon’s back and another laid over the orb’s northern pole. _Guardianf of the univerfe_ is poorly scrawled out on the bottom in crayon, some of the letters backwards or upside down.

“Rather be princes of the universe,” Crowley drawls softly, smirking up at them but everyone in the room looks at him blankly.

“Philistines,” Crowley grouses, tossing his hands up and stalking off.

“I uh,” Anathema gulps softly. “It’s you, isn’t it?” She hadn’t really considered it until she saw them together at dinner that one night, because in the dream, the dragon snarks something unintelligible, and the warrior rolls his eyes fondly, swatting the dragon lightly, before they return to their gentle vigil. She should’ve made the connection when she saw their true forms, but sometimes it takes time to smooth things out, fit together all the pieces.

“It certainly appears that way,” Aziraphale sighs, smoothing the crinkled page on the countertop. “Thank you, Anathema. Truly,” he nods.

* * *

“I could drive, if you’d like,” Aziraphale offers for the fourth time. It’s Friday afternoon, and Crowley’s slumped a little in the seat and driving with one thumb hooked in the steering wheel, his splinted hand awkwardly working the stick shift.

“No,” Crowley grumbles.

“Do I really drive that poorly, dear?” Aziraphale chuckles lightly, shaking his head.

Crowley mutters something unintelligible, smiling ruefully.

“If you start veering into fences again, I’m going to have to insist,” Aziraphale tuts. Crowley’s been pretty good so far, driving just a little fast and not really veering around cars too much. They’ve been puttering behind a camper for the past twenty minutes, and he seems surprisingly calm at this fact.

“Can you think of anyone in your contacts for Adam?” Aziraphale chews his thumb idly as they trundle past more bored cows.

“Hmm,” Crowley sniffs. “There’s Urnnie?” he quirks his head a little, too achy to turn and look at Aziraphale.

When Crowley had been confined to hell, mopping up Dagon’s muck for a few years, they’d put a number of demons across from Aziraphale. Most of them he shunted into mysterious accidents that couldn’t be traced back to him, _oh goodness, the house collapsed and everyone was safe except for the one room that demon was staying in, what a coincidence! _

But there was one demon that he’d let stay across from him, just thwarting him relentlessly, and this demon had been stubborn enough to stay rather than quit after a few months of it like the others. He was toothless, really, and tended to mimic Crowley’s temptations like a younger sibling. He’d come down to Hell after another round of thwarting and invited Crowley to a drink at a shitty dive bar and they’d caroused, commiserating about being set across such a rotting, heavenly bastard. Crowley was mostly fishing for info ensuring Aziraphale was still okay, Gabriel wasn’t bothering him and the like, but they’d built and maintained a tenuous friendship, Urnnie occasionally popping up with odd copycats of his supposed accomplishments or Crowley asking for his opinion on a new idea. After the M25, Urnnie had not dared peep a wahoo, but he had gone to America and taken Crowley’s trickster template and completely mucked up all the major metropolitan transportation systems on the east board. They’re mutually pretty impressed with each other and their respective capacities for chaos, and the idea of the two of them working together should honestly be terrifying.

Urnnie is tall with a pot belly but he slouches so much that he appears short, and he carries a brand much like Crowley. It completely eats up his left eye, a black spiky blot suggesting the urchin he is apparently associated with. His name is actually nearly a thousand letters long, tripping with more consonants and syllables than most anyone has the attention span to attempt. He’s gone by Urnnie since mere seconds after he’d fallen: “Aw shucks, Urnnie’s jus’ fine, ma’am.” He’s sounded like a slippery Southern troublemaker since the first day he dripped with sulfur and if he took up just a little more space, someone might notice that he’s the archetype for the character.

“I, hm,” Aziraphale frowns. “I suppose there is that. We should get him an angelic agent to offset… that, though.” Crowley cackles quietly, drifting into a wheezing cough and clutching his ribs.

“That’s on you, then,” he wheezes.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale frowns, looking into the distance for a long time. “I’ll have to think about it,” he rubs his face after a moment.

“Mmm,” Crowley nods, finally getting tired of the stupid camper and veering around them.

The sun’s setting by the time that Crowley slowly pulls them far enough away from Tadfield that he can stop feeling Adam’s aura. His foot slips off the gas at the relief, and he pulls over to the side, feeling lighter than he has in a week.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, quirking his head at him. “Shall I drive?” he asks, gesturing towards the stick shift that Crowley’s still got his splinted hand cramped around.

Crowley’s feeling a lot of things in that moment, suffused with a shaky giddiness and a sudden overwhelming amount of energy that’s apparently been bubbling under the surface, tamped down by the low grating hum of a trained panic response.

Aziraphale leans forward to gently remove his hand from the stick shift, and Crowley grabs his collar and pulls him in to a rabid kiss with absolutely zero thought involved at all. Crowley’s trying to tug him into his lap, or creep over to him, or he’s not even sure, he just wants to crawl into Aziraphale in a very visceral way right this second.

“D-dear,” Aziraphale pants as Crowley’s clawed thumb undoes his bowtie so that he can lave at the tender flesh just under his jaw, “Uhm, are you sure—”

“Need thissss,” Crowley hisses, shifting towards him and tugging his body closer across the seats.

“Please, dear, let’s get to an inn, or—” Crowley steals his lips again, and he very nearly wins him over except for a pained yelp as he leans his weight on his splinted wrist.

Crowley suddenly finds himself plunked in the back of the Bentley, a frail, tissuey tie around his wrists and Aziraphale revving the Bentley, jerking the car forward.

“Alright dear? You should be able to get out of that easily if it bothers you,” he sniffs, glancing back at him in the rear-view mirror.

“S’ good angel,” Crowley chuckles, shaking his head and quivering a little as he still feels so intensely, desperately in need of touch that it almost hurts to not have it.

“Uhm. Where did that come from, exactly?” Aziraphale asks after a moment, biting his lip at memories of vodka and _don’t stop me._

“We’re outta Adam’s aura,” Crowley sinks back with some difficulty, wincing as the Bentley barks up a little on some uneven asphalt.

“Oh. Oh, I see,” Aziraphale blinks. “I uh, well, once we have a room somewhere, we can certainly continue that, if… if you think it will help.”

Crowley grumbles a little, ripping the paper wrist ties up and wanting to sink down further in the seat, but his ribs won’t let him. “Like I know, Aziraphale. I just… the second it faded I just needed to touch you so bad it hurt,” he looks out the window with stiff frustration in his face.

The Bentley’s speed starts creeping up past a sedate thirty, upwards perhaps even past sixty, and Crowley raises his eyebrows.

“Are you speeding, angel?” he purrs, smirking at Aziraphale as he leans over the back of the front seats.

“Please sit back, Crowley, I’m going to get us there as quickly as I can,” Aziraphale’s eyes flick over at him nervously.

* * *

It’s solidly dark by the time that he pulls into an inn, the only thing for miles. It’s very rustic with a lovely view of an algae-slicked pond. Crowley pulls the reservations from thin air with a sneer, and even manages to tug his luggage along for a bit with his right hand.

Aziraphale forces him to put it down after he jars something going up the steps, though. There’s no elevator here of course, so Crowley wanders into their room and patiently stands near the door while Aziraphale carries in their bags. Aziraphale shuts the door and lays a palm to the painted wood, appearing to be praying but he’s actually laying a few not-so-small protections down, as well as one or two noise-dampening spells to boot.

“Alright, that’s done with,” Aziraphale grins up at him, holding his arms out like he expects a hug, “Shall we?”

Crowley crumples into Aziraphale’s arms, the warmth he’s been seeking for the past week coiled around the angel finally seeping in as he can relax, release, not hold himself so taut in fear anymore. It hurts his ribs to let himself turn into a humanoid scarf around the angel’s neck, but thankfully, his trust isn’t misplaced at all and Aziraphale plucks him up and carries him to the bed. For a second he tries to ladle the demon _on_ to the bed, but he quickly gives that up and settles them both down with Crowley coiled around him. Aziraphale’s carefully angled the demon so that his left side, with the still-broken wrist and most of the broken ribs, is pointed upwards and not down where things might hurt more.

Aziraphale pets his hair and after some time, falls into a doze with the demon’s pliant, slow-to-warm weight around him.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes at some gray, indeterminate time in the middle of the night to Crowley moaning disconsolately, thrashed away from him, and clearly having a bad dream.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pets his arm, trying to pull him away from laying on his left side. The demon blinkers awake slowly, considering the room they’re in with suspicion not unlike when he’d frowned in confusion to find Aziraphale in dark gray with a Luciferian aura in the vicinity. He takes a deep breath after a moment, rubbing his eyes hard with his good hand and grunting.

“Bad dreams?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley just nods and rocks his body over to curl closer to the angel, but not touching him. “How are you feeling now?”

Crowley sniffs a little, “Lotta things hurt.”

Aziraphale flumps back on the bed at that, regarding the ceiling. “Yes, I suppose we should endeavor to avoid fighting archangels as well.” Crowley rolls his eyes and laughs dryly.

“What d’ya make of this guardian stuff?” Crowley asks softly, moving to entangle the fingers of his right hand in Aziraphale’s.

“It’s…” Aziraphale pushes a few white ringlets out of his face, huffing. “I suppose we’ve been watching over earth for a long time, already.”

Crowley dolefully considers the ceiling as well, before finally turning his head to consider Aziraphale, “But we were just watching.”

Aziraphale quirks a brow at him, smirking. “Oh yes, _just watching_,” he shakes his head. “Yes, I suppose those children who survived the flood did so because you just happened to _see_ them, hm?”

Crowley stiffens a little, looking guilty. “Well, I mean,” he rolls his shoulders, “I mean, I just… I didn’t _do_ anything, I just made sure they made it to high ground.” Aziraphale shakes his head, hiding his smile with a hand.

“You already had the title, though,” Crowley offers after another drift of silence. “’Guardian of the eastern gate.’”

“It’s just a title, dear,” Aziraphale sighs. “Technically Gabriel is—w-was the guardian of the south.”

“That’s human bullshit,” Crowley mutters, crawling closer to curl around Aziraphale’s side with a lot of hissing at his ribs.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffs, picking him up by the hip and moving him so that he’ll not be coiling around him and hurting his injured side. He ends up splaying the demon so that he’s straddling his lap instead.

“Hmph,” Crowley blows hair out of his face.

“If you’re going to ask if I’m still interested, the answer is yes,” Aziraphale smirks, caressing his thighs lightly. Crowley laughs lightly, leaning down carefully on his right arm. “It’s been yes for several thousand years,” Aziraphale whispers as Crowley brings his face down to his.

“Oh really,” Crowley bites his lip, tilting his head back to consider him.

“Is that a surprise?” Aziraphale lets his hands curl up over his backside, firmly gripping his bony behind as Crowley laughs lightly.

“A little,” Crowley nods, softly bringing their lips together. Aziraphale nips into the kiss, pulling him closer, and Crowley yelps as he leans on his left hand again.

“Alright, up,” Aziraphale hefts him up and Crowley’s head spins dizzily as he’s suddenly carted around quite delicately until Aziraphale is straddling his lap, hands lightly holding his arms down at the bicep. “Not jarring anything?” Aziraphale wiggles his hips meaningfully even though Crowley isn’t quite that affected yet.

“Y’re good,” Crowley laughs lightly, and Aziraphale is not nearly as delicate in the kiss he lays on him, biting his bottom lip and hungrily tasting into his mouth. Crowley moans shakily into him, letting his hands wander up Aziraphale’s back as he leans down to brace his arms around Crowley’s head. He’s managing to press very deviously into him while not leaning against his ribs or anything else, but it still hurts a little as he continues gently rocking his clothed hips against him. Crowley tries to hide his pained hisses as gasps, but Aziraphale pulls back after a moment with a concerned frown.

“Perhaps,” he rubs his lips a little mischievously, eyes ticking over Crowley’s flushed, quirked brow mixed with the bruises still smudged around his throat. “Perhaps I should just take care of you instead,” his grin turns utterly wicked as he runs his tongue over his teeth, but a number of expressions flit over Crowley’s face before he can stop them. Aziraphale pushes himself back, frowning.

“We’re talking about this now,” he sets himself back on his haunches, pushing a few stray white ringlets out of his face.

“Uhm,” Crowley licks his lips, looking guilty and scared.

“The last time you had that expression after kissing, you were under the frankly _mind-boggling_ misapprehension that I wasn’t making the effort, so let’s just head this off this time,” he gestures. Crowley grumpily blows his hair out of his face, rubbing his palms up and down Aziraphale’s legs, unconsciously rocking his shoulders back forth a little with his wanting to wriggle out of this.

“’s um,” Crowley is blushing terribly, and his voice is very small, “Y’don’t have to.” He’s doing everything he can not to look Aziraphale in the face in spite of the fact that the angel is currently splayed in his lap, one hand playing over his lips as he considers the demon with a curious frown.

“And if I’d like to?” Aziraphale asks, resisting the urge to lean in and purr it in Crowley’s ear just to watch him pant and flush.

“Uhm,” Crowley’s eyes flick up at him and away. “It’s… I, gnnn,” he palms his face, and sinks back with a grumble.

“Do you not like receiving fellatio?” Aziraphale asks, squinting a little at him and Crowley rolls his eyes heartily.

“Don’t think there’s a thing on earth that would say no to a blow job, angel,” Crowley grumbles.

“Oh, you’d be surprised, dear,” Aziraphale tilts his head, smirking smugly and Crowley sighs deeply, rubbing his temple and wiggling like he wants to no longer be beneath the angel. That’s not quite it, he more so just wants to be out of this conversation, out the door, let’s just carry on and pretend that this isn’t a thing, but Aziraphale isn’t going to let him run off this time. The angel hefts himself up and to the side and offers a hand to help Crowley into a sitting-up position, though.

“Uhm,” Crowley palms his hair and sighs.

“It’s alright if you don’t like it,” Aziraphale says softly, watching Crowley’s nondominant hand finger through his hair unconsciously as he looks away from him. “If something bothers you, just tell me, and—”

“I like it, angel,” Crowley interrupts him. “You’re quite good at it,” he turns to smirk at him, and Aziraphale looks up at him, a little wonderous, and a little flushed by the compliment.

“It’s…” he sighs deeply again. “I guess I get lost. And… I’ve gotten so lost before that I just… can’t get off anymore, at all. And,” his voice starts to go a little tight, and he swallows thickly. “And last time that happened, he—it. I,” he makes a frustrated noise, rubbing at the tears on his cheek irritably. “I had to-to leave ‘cause he couldn’t look at me. Thought I wassss cheating and—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale leans forward to pull the demon into a hug, gentling his head into his shoulder. “Crowley, I won’t leave you. _I love you_.”

“I mean,” Crowley’s voice is tight and a little frantic with tears, head still tucked into his neck, “I mean, you say that now—”

“I will say that until the end of time dear, I’m not letting you go,” Aziraphale’s voice is a little rough with his own emotions as he gently rocks the demon back and forth and Crowley sobs loudly into his shoulder. “I love you, you’re mine, I love you,” Aziraphale whispers into his ear, holding him as tight as he dares with his bruises and broken bones. It’s a long time before Crowley stops crying, and just breathes heavily, listening to Aziraphale softly repeating _I love you_.

He squeezes Aziraphale’s arms and leans back, wiping his face clean. “Don’ dessserve thisss,” he hisses.

“Shh,” Aziraphale puts a finger to his lips. “You deserve the world, my darling. You deserve so much more than you’ve been given and I will absolutely ensure that you get it from now on.”

Crowley sighs and something sarcastic flips on his face for a second as he looks away. “Enough, Aziraphale. I get it. Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale frowns at him. “Well, I hope at least a little of it got through that dense skull of yours,” he smirks a little and Crowley laughs wetly, gasping and grabbing his ribs.

“Fuck, I love you,” he sniffles with a quivering chuckle.


	16. Chapter 16

Crowley takes Aziraphale home the next day, and heads back to his flat. One of the tenants in the elevator turns ashen as she takes in the bruise on his throat and the splinted wrist, and he’s careful to give her space to grieve her own traumas, leaning against the wall of the elevator away from her and staring at the carpet.

He walks into his flat with his suitcase, and stands in his kitchen for all of five minutes, staring disinterestedly around. He’d been thinking about maybe sleeping for a few days, eating something, maybe watching a movie and dozing on the couch. Something in his chest roars as he stands there: _this is not your home, why are you still here?_

He does some laundry, packs up a different suite of clothes, plucking out all the turtlenecks he owns. The bruises on his throat will be there for a while yet, and it’ll just be easier to pretend that he’s fine and not squick any humans with his injuries if he masks them beneath cloth.

After a bit of fussing with this or that, he goes and finds a homey hotel and sleeps for two days straight. He’s woken by room service around eleven on Monday, and shoos them out, miracling the room clean so that they won’t have to waste their time on it as he showers.

There are a few texts from Aziraphale on his phone which is _new_ but not unpleasant.

**Saturday, 8:43 pm:** Did something happen to your flat? Why aren’t you at home?

**Sunday, 11:25 am:** Call me when you wake up. You’d better have laid protections down or I’m going to be very cross with you.

Crowley laughs dryly as he towels out his hair. Trust the angel to text in complete, grammatical English with full punctuation.

* * *

Aziraphale spends the weekend puttering around the shop, stopping by a local estate sale to pick up a few pieces, and beginning to flip through the angelic agent archive he’d recently used to discover more information about Rosier. He’s just not nearly as familiar with the lot of them. He’d been a commander once and knew all of his soldiers, but they’re now flung out across the universe in a variety of different roles and it’s also been an unfathomable amount of time. Most of the agents he’s considering are new, from a millennium old to just a few centuries, and he decides to start interviewing them as potential tutors.

He reaches out for Crowley’s line a few times on the weekend, vainly worried what with all the recent excitement and is shocked to find the demon asleep, but not in his bed in Mayfair. He resists the urge to pry, to wrap the ring’s protections around himself and appear next to him again. He just pecks out messages on his phone with a little difficulty.

* * *

“Hey angel, sorry,” Crowley rumbles, already driving over with two bags of savory Persian food: a litter of kebabs, a bag of warm naan, a styrofoam box full of an herby frittata, kuku sabzi, and a large plastic cup of fesenjan slotted into a cupholder and only not sloshing around because he’s glared at it ferociously at each stop light.

“Sorry for what, dear?” Aziraphale chuckles. It’s kind of freeing just talking to him on his cell phone, no _A.Z. Fell and Co, _just _Hello dear _with _I love you _chasing after it unspoken.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he shrugs, and glowers at the cup as the red-brown stew presses against the plastic lid at another stop light.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks idly, not a high-pitched worried thing, just checking in.

“Fine enough,” Crowley shrugs, parking the Bentley.

“A-are you, is that you outside?” Aziraphale laughs, walking to the front of the shop.

“Y-yeah?” Crowley mumbles, waving at him with an unsure smile on his face.

“Come in, dear. Did you bring food?” he laughs fondly. Leave it to Crowley to take the tiniest slight and bring him effusive gifts in apology.

“’Course.”

After eating a delicious lunch, Aziraphale imperiously insists that if Crowley’s literally _that_ uncomfortable in his home, it’s time to move.

“You could always stay here,” Aziraphale’s eyes glitter sweetly and a guttering, dark splotch on Crowley’s soul is suddenly enrobed in light and it’s horrifying and it’s _wonderous_.

“Maybe for the night,” Crowley manages around the lump in his throat.

* * *

When Warlock comes over that Tuesday, Crowley’s dozing on the couch, cramped up a little awkwardly with his still injured side. Aziraphale brushes Warlock’s homework aside, and brings his chair so that they’re sitting directly next to one another.

“Uhm,” Warlock mumbles, looking around the kitchen.

“I just want to look at your eyes,” Aziraphale says, regarding him. “Are you still getting headaches?”

Warlock bites his lip, looking all around the rustic kitchen and not at the angel who is always just a little too bright to look at directly. He nods after a moment.

“You’re going to have to look at me for this to work,” Aziraphale huffs, leaning his head on his hand on the counter and smiling. It’s a fond blend that reminds Warlock of Brother Francis and Mr. Cortese which makes this a little easier.

“You’re… you’re really bright,” Warlock mumbles, rubbing his nose after he struggles to hold Aziraphale’s eyes for a few seconds and has to stop, looking away from his dazzle.

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts. “Oh, here, let me see,” he screws up his face for a moment in concentration, and the soft glow in the kitchen dims. “Better?”

Warlock squints at him. With the brightness gone, he’s got a terrifying enormity which makes Warlock feel incredibly insignificant, like a giant, unknowable, and omniscient being is regarding him and finding him wanting. It’s not a nice feeling, and it’s part of why he’s never really glommed onto the idea of ‘angel’ in spite of Crowley’s insistence.

Warlock glowers up at him, defiant.

“Ah,” Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise, and he leans forward to tilt his chin up. “It’s good that we caught it now, you might have lost your sight if left untrained,” he clicks his tongue, and Warlock forgets his childish defiance for a moment, fear knocking in his chest.

“What?” he squeaks, and Crowley stirs on the couch. The light renews as Aziraphale peers over at the demon, helpless smile curling his lip.

“You won’t, now. You may have to wear glasses, but I think you’ll be fine,” he tilts his head a little. Crowley mumbles on the couch, and shifts, sinking back into slumber.

“Let’s try something simple,” Aziraphale snaps and there’s a small silver box on the table beside him, and Warlock winces at the little flitters of magic he can see glimmering around the box from the miracle he’s used to call it here. Aziraphale pulls out a completely banal glass orb seated on a red velvet cushion from within. “Just hold this. I want you to look into it and tell me what you see.”

Warlock quirks his brow at him, but plucks the orb up. It’s a nice size that fits comfortably in his palm, though it’s surprisingly heavy. He peers at it, turning it this way or that.

“It’s just glass,” Warlock shrugs after a moment.

“Is it?” Aziraphale asks softly, peering at it with silver eyes.

Warlock frowns at him, but turns back to the orb and jumps to find that the previously completely transparent thing is now jet black. He barely manages not to drop it in his start, and Aziraphale steadies his hand with a small chuckle.

“What do you see?”

“It’s, it’s black!” Warlock gasps.

“I think they called these… trainers,” Aziraphale waves, “It picks up on energies in the area and projects them, allowing you to hone in on them. Look at Crowley, if you would.” He gestures and Warlock turns to do so and starts again. Crowley _was_ in a black and gray striped turtleneck, swaddled in a dark blue and green quilt on the couch, but right now he looks like a man shaped being suffused with a pulsing darkness, like he’s glowing with void, crowned by a corona of red hair, and fringing with odd shards of blackness around the edges.

Warlock rubs his forehead, blinking furiously.

“What do you see?” Aziraphale asks softly, and Warlock frowns at him. Aziraphale looks so perfectly human for once that it’s startling, and he closes his eyes against all this _seeing_ that’s making his head swim.

“He looks all… black. Like he’s just glowing black,” Warlock mutters, “This is so weird.”

Aziraphale laughs lightly at that. “Alright,” he gently taps on the countertop. “Can you look at the trainer again?”

Warlock gives him a frustrated look, which Aziraphale just shrugs at. “Please? I want you to think of it being glass again.”

Warlock peers at the orb in his palm, but it stays pretty resolutely black. “It’s still black,” Warlock grumbles after a moment.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hums. “Can you think of something calming? We’re trying to walk back to your normal sight right now,” he gestures, “Eventually you’ll be able to click in and out easily, but right now we just need to build the muscle memory.”

Warlock blinks at him, still so resolutely human that it’s eerie, and pauses. He thinks about hiding under his bed sheets, peering at comic books with a flashlight while eating the last of his banana flavored gum the other night. He flicks his eyes back to the orb, and it slowly swirls back to glass before his eyes.

“It’s back,” Warlock rubs his nose with his free hand.

“Good! Good,” Aziraphale nods. “Okay, how’s your head feeling?”

Warlock blinks in surprise. He hadn’t really thought about it during that entire thing, but usually when he got glimpses of Other, it would blur, sting, and hurt like he was desperately trying to force faint, misprinted text on a page into clarity. His head feels pretty fine besides the residual headache he tends to have these days.

“It’s uh, it doesn’t hurt,” Warlock looks at Aziraphale with a start. The glow is back, but it’s pretty faint, and it’s probably masking the heavenly enormity. For now, he’s fine with that.

“Okay, I think for the first few times, I should be here to ensure it all goes well, but eventually you can have this,” he delicately takes the glass orb from him. “And I’ll have you try it at home, maybe once a day, just to get used to how it feels to switch between things.”

“For now, though, I think just finding something calming that will let you center and get out of Seeing when you don’t want to is the important thing,” he softly pats Warlock’s shoulder as he clips the silver box closed.

“Okay,” Warlock says softly, and starts as Crowley strolls into the kitchen, looking very much like himself and not like a human-shaped void, just a soft, broken halo around his head to mark him as something different.

“You two have fun?” Crowley drawls, pulling a few plates from the cupboards and tugging out a few different containers of leftovers from Aziraphale’s fridge. Warlock shrugs after a moment when Aziraphale doesn’t answer.

Crowley considers them as he portions out plates for the three of them before sticking them in the microwave, one by one.

“Not _too _much fun, I hope,” Crowley adds, quirking a brow and smiling softly as he leans against the countertop.

“Just trying out trainers,” Aziraphale shrugs. He tries and fails at masking his soppy grin at watching the demon be domestic. He may not have been trying very hard, to be fair.

“Trainers?” Crowley frowns.

“Those little crystal balls, remember?” Aziraphale gestures towards holding one in his hand as Crowley slots their warmed plates in front of them, as well as napkins and silverware.

“Oh right,” Crowley nods. “How’d it go?” he looks directly at Warlock who gulps and looks away.

“He just saw you, but it didn’t hurt, so I think we’re headed in the right direction,” Aziraphale nods, quite familiar with speaking up for someone who’s not feeling very verbal at the moment.

“Ah, sorry ‘bout that,” Crowley grins loosely, “Maybe you two should do it when I’m not around.” Aziraphale frowns at him as Crowley curls a bit of the kuku sabzi together with a bit of kebab wrapped in naan into his mouth.

“Uhm,” Warlock mutters around his full mouth. “Uhm, I prefer it when you’re both here,” he says softly, and the angel and demon both pause. Aziraphale’s face breaks out in a relieved smile and Crowley chuckles slightly after a moment.

“Well, if you insist,” Crowley shakes his head fondly.

* * *

Aziraphale’s on his fifth interview, and it really is a little ridiculous just how daft and ignorant so many angels are. The second agent he interviewed had appeared at the fae shop near the subway entrance _without a corporation_ and he’d had to do a lot of rapid spellwork and apologizing to the owners with _that_ one.

Crowley’s over at the bookshop every other night just about, but he’s being very circumspect about Aziraphale’s frustration with this. His lips quiver through a tremulous smirk occasionally as Aziraphale tells him the stories, though. He tries desperately to hide it behind his cup, which just makes Aziraphale want to kiss him and then, well, there goes the evening.

The one today is… okay, he’ll probably put them through a second interview somewhere more remote than this so that he can ensure they actually _know_ some of the dampening and other magic that Adam should be aware of to protect himself. He’s not holding his breath, though.

He smiles primly, patting the angel’s shoulder and ushering him out of the sandwich shop because he doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself now that Aziraphale’s concluded the interview.

“I’ll be in contact,” he states breezily, waving the angel off. The interviewee wanders off, looking a little lost and going in the completely opposite direction of the subway. Aziraphale just lets him go, and returns to his table with a sigh. The waitress brings him a fresh cup of coffee as he peruses a set of CVs of other angelic agents, pursing his lips and frowning occasionally.

The shop is still covered with Crowley’s protections from that day with Uriel, so he _does_ notice when another angel enters the sandwich shop. But this spot is a common meeting place, close enough to the subway that many people just stopped in for a quick conversation away from prying ears and then scooted back to their respective desks.

A woman-shaped figure sits across from Aziraphale, looking very purposefully at him with their brown hair cascading wildly down their shoulders in waves. They look very much like the Morrigan they’d been named as in the Middle Ages, far more the warrior goddess than they’ve let themselves be in centuries.

“Michael,” Aziraphale gently clips his leatherette folder closed. “Fancy meeting you here,” he gives him a very false smile, fingers itching to grip a mace or a spear, but he just forces them onto the tablecloth to smooth it.

“Aziraphale,” Michael nods at him, “you’re hard to get in contact with.”

Aziraphale frowns at that, eyes flicking over Michael’s appearance. It’s very likely a response to Gabriel’s fall. There’s been a little bit of a shuffle in the hierarchies, and a few other angels have quietly fallen as well, more whispers than bugles. Crowley and he had shared a grimace of _well he deserved that_ as they sat in the back of the bookshop one night after hearing Sandolphon take the painful swan dive.

“You can always write, Michael,” Aziraphale simpers at him, sipping his coffee.

Michael sighs and gives him a put-upon look, “You know as well as I that putting things down in writing can be dangerous.”

“Oh? Not just interested in talking about the weather?” Aziraphale dabs at his lip primly.

“No,” Michael sighs, and gives the waitress a very tense smile as she pauses next to him with a notepad poised, “Just a coffee. Black, please.”

“Raphael,” Michael starts and Aziraphale sighs.

“That’s not my name anymore,” he states stiffly, staring sourly at his cup, “What do you want?”

Michael takes the small cup from the waitress with a polite smile and a nod. “We need a leader,” Michael says quietly into his cup, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Aziraphale glowers.

A sullen look passes over Michael’s face, before he mutters, “You were always better at strategizing and leading, Aziraphale.”

“I was better at getting people killed,” Aziraphale states stonily and Michael’s posture stiffens.

“That was a long time ago,” Michael says softly, sipping his coffee with a distant look.

“It was.” Aziraphale sighs deeply after a moment, dabbing at the condensation on his saucer, “The answer is no, Michael.”

“I-but,” Michael stammers. “Your place is up there,” Michael gestures, “with _us_.”

“I think I’ve made it clear where I stand,” Aziraphale drums his fingers on the table, and Michael’s eyes linger over the serpentine ring on his left ring finger.

“You would choose that demon over us?” Michael asks softly, but there’s not nearly as much venom as Gabriel might’ve pushed into the statement.

Aziraphale leans forward, sneering softly, “Would you choose Dagon and Beelzebub over them?”

Michael bites his lip and looks away, quivering with a strong and barely suppressed emotion, and the answer is yes, yes, _yes_ it’s so very clear on his face.

“That’s neither here nor there,” he bites out after a long moment of silence and Aziraphale laughs dryly, shaking his head incredulously.

“Fine,” Michael grumbles, tossing his napkin on the table with vehemence. “As our continued attaché to Earth, I request that you allow us open communications,” he meets Aziraphale’s eyes with a hard look.

“I forget to pay the telephone bill _once_, and you’re treating me like I’m obfuscating justice,” Aziraphale waves lightly with a dim smile on his face. He may have forgotten about his work line existing at all with the new mobile more than ‘forgetting to pay a bill.’ He’ll have to ask Crowley about forwarding the number to his cell. “Yes, I will ensure there’s an open channel in the future, my apologies.”

Michael sips at his coffee, nodding. His posture changes subtly, less of the professional angel here on a mission and more of the sly creature that’s been considering the way that Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other for millennia, and cruelly poking here or there.

“You should know,” Michael starts, and Aziraphale considers him with an arched brow, “Crowley is hiding something.”

Aziraphale swallows pointedly at that, choosing his words carefully. “I can’t imagine he’d be very forthcoming with Heaven,” he smirks, willfully missing the point, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“He’s… he’s lying about something big,” Michael’s leg jitters under the table. “They won’t tell me what, but don’t trust him. You can’t let him hurt you.”

Aziraphale actually does a textbook spit take at that, spluttering.

“Michael,” he manages after regaining his breath, “Michael, dear, _fuck off_.” Michael is stunned to silence, and a little spattered with coffee besides. Aziraphale pats his napkin on the table, cleaning the mess he’s made with only a little anxious quiver.

“Ah,” Michael says robotically. His mouth moves through a series of motions, like he wants to say something, but he clamps it shut after a moment. As Aziraphale keeps drinking his coffee like nothing particularly fascinating has just happened, Michael clears his throat, and stands up, looking away from him. “Right. It was good to talk to you. Keep up the good work,” he nods curtly.

“Take care, Michael,” Aziraphale nods back, sipping the remains of his coffee with a faint quiver of anxiety in his arm.

* * *

Crowley’s going up and down the coast, looking at various properties and houses. He texts Aziraphale to let him know which area he’s going to be in, and he’s starting to drift far enough away that he’s not staying over every other night, but every other-other night.

As he’s driving one night through South Harting, he looks up at the stars and just stops. There’s no one else out here, so he doesn’t get rear-ended as he steps out of the car to stare at the brilliant canopy of stars laid out for him. It’s so clear out here that his chest hurts like a weeping wound, and his phone starts buzzing in his pocket as he tries to swallow around all the emotions that he can’t name in his throat.

“’Zirfel,” he manages as he thumbs to accept the call.

“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks earnestly. “I was just resting my eyes and I just had the worst feeling, dear, please tell me you’re alright.”

Crowley swallows thickly for a moment, plucking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, recomposing himself. “It’s beautiful out here, angel. You can actually see the stars.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale croons, “You’ll have to show me.”

“I will, angel. I will.” 

* * *

He begins looking through the cottages available, and he’s entirely disgusted by what he finds. Too large, too cramped, too clustered with other people, not enough garden space, bad views, can’t even _hear _the ocean, what’s the point?

He sulks at Aziraphale’s for two days before he goes back, soothing a few anxious flares of the angel as he worries over what Michael will do in reaction to his outburst. Aziraphale had mentioned it in passing via text, and Crowley might’ve wanted to know a little _sooner _that certain archangels were looking in on his angel, but Aziraphale honestly didn’t think about it.

Crowley’s ring glitters on his finger, and it soothes the ire that wants to build there in Crowley’s chest. If Aziraphale’d honestly been in trouble, Crowley would’ve known faster than ever before, and the spells inlaid there would even be able to do something for him, protect him before Crowley could rush bodily onto the scene.

He returns to the cottage hunt after that, and prowls through some of the more far flung lots. There are a few run-down cottages that he’s a little interested in, but next to one of these mildly interesting fixer-uppers he tilts his head in interest. At the end of this road is a cottage which is so run down that it’s not even listed, roof caving in, windows sagging and green things poking out of gaping doorways.

He jumps the picket fence and lopes onto the property, measuring with his eyes. It’s large, and the ocean is plenty audible, crashing against the cliffs nearby. There’s even a leery, sandy pathway down to the sea behind the tilted cottage, and as he’s considering that with a small smile, he leans his weight against a lumbering, dead tree and pauses.

_Oh_, he looks down, _ley lines, huh?_

There’s two crisscrossing in the backyard of this cottage, but they’re so worn down and dimmed that he hadn’t noticed them at first. One of them has tremblings of holiness in it, magic carted through a number of churches through the countryside. The other doesn’t feel like anything in particular to him, and without really thinking, he leans down to dip a hand into them like a burbling creek. As he lets the magic feel over his palm, something sparks and _pulls_, but not badly, just like a needle prick. He yanks his hand back, startled, and blinks at the now swelling ley lines beneath his feet.

Something smells intensely of sap, and he stumbles back in surprise as the dead tree suddenly livens, springing out in live branches, and young, springy leaves shunting out of the bark, a sweet scent of apple blossoms suffusing the air. One large bright red apple unfurls right in front of him, drooping from a too-young branch and Crowley sighs deeply, a little in awe and a little in frustration at a certain Someone’s sense of humor. He mutters dark blasphemes under his breath, but relieves the tree of its one overabundance, considering the red skinned flesh in his hand.

“Well, I guess this is it,” he smiles wistfully, crunching into the fruit and shaking his head ruefully. 

* * *

Valentine’s Day comes and Crowley buys a giant gewgaw of a heart-shaped tin and fills it to the brim with dark, _dark_ chocolate, all as close to 100% cacao as he can get because he can be a bit of a bastard, too. He slots it on Aziraphale’s desk with a small smile, but doesn’t stay to listen to Aziraphale’s oohs and ahhs because it’s one of Those Days. He hasn’t had one in a while, so perhaps he’s due.

He might have just stayed in his flat and watched Golden Girls with the curtains drawn and his darkest sunglasses on to avoid the stinging of _too much_. The flat stings, though, just hanging around it feels like the ache of hiding, of pretending, of being something that he’s not, and even though he feels strung tight, it feels better to be in the shop with Aziraphale. He slings himself into the daybed in the back, heavy sound-proof headphones on his ears and slick wrap-arounds hiding his eyes as he settles in to try aiming at something like dozing through this.

“Oh, but these are _rich_, dear, you’ve outdone yourself,” Aziraphale hums happily, voice a little muffled for chewing. “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I—”

“I can hear you,” Crowley grunts, because although the headphones are the most expensive and sound-proofed in the world, nothing’s going to stop sound getting into his ears when he’s like this.

“Ah, oh, I see,” Aziraphale tuts a little and he hears him set down the tin on a table somewhere. “Do you, can I help?”

Crowley makes a grumpy noise because he didn’t want to ask but _yes that’d be nice_.

“Oh, you silly thing,” Aziraphale chuckles, brushing his hands off, “here, budge up.” Aziraphale gently prods his shoulder, and Crowley shifts up to allow Aziraphale to slink in behind him. He turns around once Aziraphale settles in a little, pulling off his sunglasses and headphones and sinking his head into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“’S weird that this works,” he sighs, exhaling deeply as the buzzing warmth of Aziraphale’s skin against his eases into something pleasant, easier to focus on than all the billions of things happening within a block’s space.

“I’m glad it does,” Aziraphale chuckles softly, gently petting his upper arm and laughing again as Crowley clumsily unbuttons his collar to get more skin-to-skin contact. He ends up getting his shirt unbuttoned midway and getting one arm under the angel, cuddling and coiling around and reminding Aziraphale very much of the snake that he is.

Crowley wiggles his head a little, and Aziraphale gets the sense that it’s something with sound, something bothering his ears. “C-can you, uhm,” he whispers quietly, and Aziraphale shivers a little to have Crowley’s lips and breath ghosting over his throat.

“A-anything, what do you need?” Aziraphale adds quickly as Crowley nearly starts shunting himself off of him for fear that he’s bothering him, considering Aziraphale’s shudders.

“Wings?” Crowley asks softly, readjusting himself so that the arm curled under Aziraphale can draw up and toy with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Watch your arm,” Aziraphale warns, and Crowley nods, stiffly withdrawing it as Aziraphale’s wings and extra arms manifest to better hold and secure the demon from his own overactive senses.

“Ah, that’s so good,” Crowley sighs deeply, turning into a deadweight atop him and Aziraphale chuckles. “_Thank you_,” Crowley pulls both of his arms under Aziraphale’s chest to hold him tightly, exactly where he wants him, and then he settles with his eyes blinded against Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale gently pets Crowley’s back and arms where they’re covered by cloth, and that seems to help too, other warm spots of sensation that keep his mind from spinning out and getting lost under the deluge.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts after a long period of silence, Crowley’s breathing deep and easy against his chest but it doesn’t appear that the demon’s asleep.

“Mmm,” Crowley mumbles sleepily.

“Is, uhm, can I, am I bothering you?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly self-conscious at bothering the demon when he’s not feeling his best.

“Pfff,” Crowley snickers, and lays a wet raspberry against Aziraphale’s clavicle. “Bother me all you want, love,” he quickly slots his head back under his jaw to keep the light out. Aziraphale lets out a long, low exhale, _you don’t know what you do to me with your pet names. _

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale starts shakily, taking deep even breaths to control the _want_ he absolutely will not force on the demon when he’s like this.

“Dangerous, that,” Crowley chuckles.

“About what Anathema… about the prophecy,” he mumbles, his hand mindlessly coming up to pet through Crowley’s hair. He hums appreciatively and makes an affirmative noise, _yes, go on_. “What if we got married?” he asks in a high, quiet whisper and Crowley stiffens around him.

Aziraphale stutters uselessly for a moment as the serpent’s body temperature suddenly drops and he draws back from hiding in his jaw to stare quizzically at him. He still hasn’t shuttered himself up, so Aziraphale can feel how much it hurts Crowley to have his eyes squinted open at him, a stabbing pain on top of an already terrible migraine.

“Look, it’s, we, I—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley growls softly. “Is that the only reason you’d ask?” his voice is cool and dark, menacing almost but there’s a roiling emotional pain playing behind his eyes.

“No, Crowley, please,” Aziraphale reaches out to caress his cheek, and is a little surprised when Crowley lets him, leaning into the touch and closing his eyes. “I, I’m already promised to you for eternity, my love, I would marry you every year for the rest of our lives, I just—”

“You’re only supposed to do it once,” Crowley grunts, sinking back onto Aziraphale’s chest and nuzzling his aching head into his jaw again.

“Oh please, people reaffirm their vows all the time,” he waves his hand carelessly and Crowley chuckles.

“Might be nice,” Crowley whispers softly, and it’s playful but Aziraphale can hear the vulnerability threaded in there.

“I love you,” Aziraphale hugs Crowley close. “I love you, I will marry you properly, and it’ll be lovely and grand, and we’ll do it as many times as we want because we _can_,” he wants to kiss Crowley’s crown but makes do with drawing up one of his hands and kissing the palm instead.

“Mmm,” Crowley rumbles. “You have my interest,” he hums.

“Perhaps… perhaps we might just do this first one like, a small thing, just… I think it might be in our best interests to lay down our vows and lay out what this whole prophecy means before we uhm,” Aziraphale shrugs a little and waves ineffectively.

“Like Romeo and Juliet,” Crowley mumbles and Aziraphale lets out a dejected sigh.

“_Not_ like Romeo and Juliet,” he grumbles, rubbing his recently shorn hair with a palm and Crowley chuckles into his skin.

“Yeah, I can get exiled and you can—”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale growls and Crowley snickers, shaking his head a little.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbles, slinking his arms back under Aziraphale’s shoulders again and settling in. “What… do you think…” he trails off, and Aziraphale can feel him opening his eyes very slightly against his neck to stare at nothing. “I still don’t know what it means.”

“Well, that’s what our vows will be for, delineating that out,” he waves one of his free hands that’s not carding through Crowley’s hair or rubbing a shoulder.

“Are we… I don’t want to become, like, _police_ or something,” Crowley mutters, closing his eyes again and sinking his head next to Aziraphale’s neck, leaning against a wing.

“I think… I think the point of it is, sort of, formalizing what we already do,” Aziraphale offers, staring at the ceiling with a slightly perplexed frown as he tries to work his way through it too.

“Hmm,” Crowley sighs.

“Like… what we did with the apocalypse,” he waves.

“We didn’t _do_ anything,” Crowley grunts and Aziraphale sighs hotly.

“Like what we did with the plagues, and the flood, and… so many things through the centuries,” he brings his gesturing hand back to scritch at Crowley’s hair and the demon releases a happy sigh at that. “I think it’s about protecting the Earth and all its creatures against what Heaven and Hell might think is right, _for them_, but it goes against the plan, against what He wants, against the nature of creation,” Aziraphale trails off.

After a few moments of silence, Crowley offers a quiet, scared whisper, “Won’t that make us targets?”

“No more than we already are, my dear,” Aziraphale replies, petting down Crowley’s arm with one hand.

“I hope it’s not like Hell,” Crowley offers after another drift of silence, sounding small and tired.

“What?” Aziraphale squeaks a little, not rearing back in surprise mainly because he doesn’t want to disturb the demon coiled on his chest.

“I can still feel…” Crowley sighs deeply. “Ya wanted to know about… when I was a prince,” Crowley offers softly, nuzzling back into his jaw again, wishing he could hide from this conversation.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” Aziraphale offers, sounding just a little ruffled.

Crowley chuckles a little, “Mmm. You know, didn’t even realize he’d crowned me until later. They got this new software, auto-filled in stuff as you were writing contracts and the like, and I was doing up a basic like, ‘consign to hell’ sort of deal.” He gestures a little and Aziraphale makes a little disconcerted noise but nods carefully, “It filled in my name as ‘Behemoth, Prince of Hell’ before it corrected itself to Crowley.” He’d used his familiarity with Dagon’s domain to sneak into the servers and erase the records relating to Behemoth, but he still tended to avoid using the software as a rule, just in case.

“When… after the fall, it…” Crowley sighs a little, pulling one of his hands from behind Aziraphale to rub at his face. “It was just Beelzebub and me, his right and his left hand, y’know.”

Aziraphale nods a little, rubbing his arm soothingly.

“He… I don’t know how he did it, but in the beginning, he honestly wasn’t the one we expected to be, uh… king? I guess. It was chaotic then, so many people jockeying for power, and…” Crowley trails off, mind suddenly consumed with violence, Lucifer directing him to destroy, blood and ichor on his claws and down his front with a dull horror gonging in his chest but he can’t stop, Lucifer’s demanding he keep moving even though his limbs feel dead and he’s floating outside of himself. But Lucifer snarls, “_Pick up Beelzebub and get the fuck over here, Behemoth. **Now.**” _

“Shh,” Aziraphale whispers, kissing his forehead and drawing his head back to his neck. “You don’t have—”

“_I’m talking about it_,” Crowley growls crossly. “I’m, sorry. Just,” he sighs deeply. “I’ve never even talked to Leonard about this stuff,” he offers quietly, “Couldn’t let anyone know about it.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale’s mouth twists a little. “Maybe you should start seeing him more regularly, hm?”

Crowley scoffs into his opened collar, “He’s more of a crisis therapist, Aziraphale.”

“Well,” Aziraphale shrugs a little. “I find Lilo’s helping me quite a lot, and—”

“Shhh,” Crowley grumbles, “Let me continue.”

Aziraphale sighs deeply, petting his head softly. “Alright,” he nods.

“Lucifer did something, and now no one can remember that there were others before him, or demons that nearly unseated him. I can’t even remember their names,” Crowley rubs his face tiredly. “I can still _see_ their faces, but he just… he erased them somehow.” He’d personally killed quite a few of them, which made it all the more disturbing, and he _knew_ that at least one of them had clawed back from the sulfur pits. But it had been after whatever Lucifer had done, so he came back… wrong; different, and not quite who he had been before. 

“Once… once it was over, it was…” Crowley sighs deeply. He’d wanted it to be _quiet_ after all the noise of battle, of Lucifer yelling at him and Beelzebub constantly, at the stress and pain and the way that demons looked up at Behemoth’s largess and were terrified out of their minds. He’d missed creating so desperately then, like a throbbing ache in his chest, but spinning out a sun wouldn’t do a damn thing to help them in the dim, dank cavern of hell with one stinking sulfur pit and constant earthquakes. “I carved out Hell. Put in supports so that we wouldn’t lose the caverns to the earthquakes, and just kept… going. There’s probably still caverns that I dug out that they haven’t found or used yet.” He’d actually bumped into the edges of Limbo a few times in his mindless, sleepless excavating, rearing back at something that said _no, don’t go there_.

“Oh,” Aziraphale pops out softly, fingers toying with a strand of Crowley’s hair.

“I can still feel the supports. Some of the bigger caverns. Like my stars, I guess,” Crowley offers softly, leaning his head back into Aziraphale’s jaw. “Don’t think I could take it if Earth ended up being like that too.”

“Well,” Aziraphale exhales deeply. “Well, perhaps if we’re sharing the burden, it… hm,” he rubs his nose idly. “I don’t think it will be, because it’s… we’re not creating it. We’re just guarding something that already exists.”

“Hmm,” Crowley nods a little.

“So,” Aziraphale offers after some time, his fingertips going a little numb at the repeated petting of Crowley’s scalp, “so, you’ll marry me, then?”

Crowley laughs dryly, “Yes, I do, I will, whatever, you absurd angel.”

* * *

Once Crowley’s a little more put together, he’s back to gutting the old cottage, knocking out the walls which are unsalvageable and squinting to figure out what it’s going to look like in the end. Crowley’s actually built plenty of things, created with his physical hands quite a bit on Earth. It’s easy to slide in and tempt from the lower-classes, and they’re always cooking, cleaning, crafting and it just felt kind of natural to take that role. People don’t really see you either, you can blend into the wallpaper even if you have little quirks like wearing dark glasses. You get to overhear all sorts of interesting things, too, and you get the opportunity to lean in and softly tempt while you’re knitting an empress’ hair into place, or shining a prince’s boots. He’s toppled empires with this, and gone back to stirring the hearth fires the next day, a penance for the sins he’s forced to dole out. He takes, and he gives back, and he just hopes that in the end it all evens out.

The cottage isn’t anywhere near to habitable, and it’s starting to get under his skin. He’s near-to the point of just miracling one of the walls that he’s discovered is rotted through to the basement into being _better_ when there’s a soft _ding_ of something pinging against the charms that he’s laid around the property.

A small, charcoal-gray piece of paper flitters to the ground on the sidewalk just outside of the property. He’s had to yank up all the fencing around the lot because it was no longer white or very sturdy, or it would’ve probably ended up laying on one of the pickets there.

He wipes a drizzle of sweat off of his forehead, leaving a dirty swipe there, and plucks off his gloves to go investigate. He stoops to consider it, but it’s curling in such a way that he can’t read what’s written on it. It’s clearly something magical because it’s not flittering or flying away in the sea breeze.

He tilts his head from where he’s squatted down, and perhaps inadvisably, plucks the post-it sized piece of paper up in his hand. He turns it over, and it’s maybe one in the afternoon, brisk but still warm in the sun, and he goes completely cold.

In a gorgeous, golden script, someone has inscribed the word, “Behemoth” lovingly. It’s a summons. He feels the spell step up to him, try to wrap him up and he stays terribly still, clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, waiting for the painful ripping sensation of being torn from _here_ and thrust _there_, but it doesn’t come.

It smells incredibly strongly of cedar and ice, and he falls wobblily onto his butt as the gold magic in the ink shimmers and fades out to just plain old gold. 

He lets out a shaky breath, and realizes that his phone is currently making a racket over in the jacket that he’d tossed off earlier in the high noon heat. He stumbles trippingly and yanks his phone out with a little miracle because it’s too far from him and he needs to sooth and be soothed right this second.

“Angel,” he breathes, just as Aziraphale yells, “Crowley!”

“Are you alright dear, what was that?” Aziraphale pants, and Crowley can hear the soft sound of one or two customers mumbling in the background. He leans against the outside of the cottage and releases a shaky breath.

“It’s so good to hear your voice, angel,” he croons, because he’s still holding the note and it smells like Lucifer even with all the cedar and snow around, and _geez_, would you look at that, he’s literally trailing ice as he carries this stupid note around.

“Crowley, if you don’t explain right this—”

“It’s fine, it was just a summons, your ring kept it from doing anything,” he breathes, crumpling the note in his hand, negating any remaining spellwork imbued there, and the chill in the air eases finally. He struggles into his jacket, nonetheless.

“I, a, a summons?” Aziraphale stammers, and he hears him swat away a customer with an angry hiss.

“Yeah,” Crowley sighs, and Aziraphale softly reaches out and caresses him with an ethereal hand and Crowley leans into it hard.

“Dear, where are you? Is that—”

“Yeh, it’s the cottage,” Crowley mumbles, shivering and aching for touch and comfort.

“You’re taking me there this weekend, Crowley, I don’t care how finished it is,” he growls quietly, “Are you truly alright? I have customers here, or I—”

“I’m gonna come back up to London,” Crowley interjects. “But I’m fine for now.”

“Good. Crowley, come back home safe and sound.” Crowley whines a little, tears dripping down his face unbidden at the fact that Aziraphale can just _say that_ and _mean it_, and a deep gash in Crowley's soul begins to seal.

“I’ll be home soon.” 

* * *

Crowley beelines for the bookshop, and he fully expects that he’ll just conk out for a day or two in the bedroom above the bookstore.

He wakes up not five hours after going to sleep, falling out of bed and trying to _run_, struck with a blind panic and the need to get away from something dangerous. He yanks the recalcitrant second floor window open, falls gracelessly into the alley and scampers into his shop. He jams himself into a corner of his inventory room and pants against the horror and fear, carefully not looking at the blackness and despair of the dreams that launched him here.

His breathing evens eventually, and he wonders if Aziraphale noticed anything amiss. He’d noticed his bone-deep awe at the stars after all, but the angel doesn’t ring him or paw at his ethereal form. He putters around his shop for a bit, soothing himself with pruning and plant care.

He stops by the bakery once he’s collected enough pieces of himself to feel capable, and chats a little with Kai as he ostensibly considers the selection of breads. He’s not hungry in the least, but he’s considering making some sort of cheese bread with a bright red sauce for the angel. Kai looks flushed with the heat of the ovens, as well as with the newness of their life. They’ve trimmed their hair brutally close to the skull, waves with a fade that’s just starting to get to the point of needing a touch up, and quietly requested a change to they/them pronouns. There’s a small but visible pride flag on wall behind the counter, and Crowley’s sure that in a few years there will be quite a few more.

He buys a boule in the end, and goes for a long walk just because he can. He’s been buying and hoarding magazines on interior design of a homier sort than he used to, tiny cottages with loft bedrooms and walls of bookcases. He’s a demon, he’s eternal, he can change the look of his stupid cottage ten million times if he wants, but right now? He’s leaning towards something clean and modern, but comfortable, perhaps a place where you could cuddle up and read with a cup of cocoa, as well as maybe giggling into a cup of chai at old sitcoms. He hasn’t asked Aziraphale, he _won’t_ ask Aziraphale to live with him. But maybe he can convince him if it’s perfect enough?

* * *

Aziraphale jumps when he walks into the storefront, idly pawing at the charm to double-check that it’s actually him. This time Crowley actually squints and considers that impulse, _wait, did you ever run into something like a lookalike, too?_

“H’lo,” Crowley mutters, pecking his cheek and frowning a little at him as he heads to the back to cook up a tomato sauce.

“W-weren’t?” Aziraphale sputters, but Crowley waves him off, and a young person drags his attention away, asking after a book which he _will not_ sell based on the possessive purse of his lips upon seeing it in their hands.

Aziraphale closes the shop around the time that the bright acidic smell of tomatoes cooking down begins to mellow to something a little darker and richer. Crowley’s got his hair tied up in a twist that’s fanned out into a curly mess, and he’s wearing a pure-white apron that Aziraphale apparently tucked into a cupboard and forgot. It’s not pure-white anymore, newly speckled with rusty red and Aziraphale finds he doesn’t mind in the least, eyeing Crowley’s exposed, freckled forearms with something warm behind his eyes.

“Almost done, angel,” Crowley sniffs, nipping a taste off of his thumb and cutting a few hefty slabs off of the boule.

“I love you,” Aziraphale smiles, stepping forward and Crowley laughs lightly, pushing his hair out of his face as he dashes grated cheese onto the slabs of bread.

“You’ll love this,” Crowley grins gamely at him, slotting a pan into the oven to broil the cheese on the bread and looking flushed from the heat from the kitchen.

“Did you make the bread?” Aziraphale asks, eying the cheese as it sizzles and hisses once he pulls it from the oven.

“No, it’s from Kai’s bakery,” Crowley ladles out a steaming bowlful of red sauce into a glass bowl in his hand, and it should burn his flesh, but his hand just turns shiny and black around the bowl.

“Oh, how’s… how’s Kai doing?” Aziraphale asks, gratefully taking a plate from Crowley and whisking silverware and glasses onto the countertop with a handwave.

“Better. Sharing a flat with a friend now,” Crowley peers at Aziraphale’s wine rack, considering, and plucks a Pinot Noir from the lot available and pours them both up.

“That’s good,” Aziraphale nods, smiling as Crowley disentangles the tie from his hair with a little fuss. His hair frizzes out a bit, and he sips his wine for a moment before curiously peering over at Aziraphale.

“Well?” he gestures at the food.

“Oh, right,” Aziraphale chuckles, having been too busy ogling and just enjoying Crowley’s company. He plucks up a trimmed rectangle of bread and slathers sauce on it, moaning shamelessly as he puts it into his mouth. Crowley chuckles a little, barely suppressing his pleased grin behind his own bite.

“Question,” Crowley starts after they’ve both put away a few pieces of cheese bread.

“Mmhmm?” Aziraphale hums around a hefty, crusty bite that makes Crowley chuckle.

“Did, uh, you always kind of start and grab for me, or well, like, today when I came in,” Crowley gestures. “Did anything like, uhm,” Crowley trails off, rubbing the back of his head and looking away from him.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale rubs a napkin over his greasy and sauce-stained face, looking concerned.

“You, uh, you never had anything like the incubus, right?” Crowley offers quietly after a moment of Aziraphale watching him curiously.

“Oh,” Aziraphale starts. “Uh, no? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Like,” Crowley sighs at how terribly this conversation is going and it’s entirely due to his stupid deficiencies with words. “Like, you get startled when I come into the shop when you don’t expect me to,” he gestures, “and you double-check it’s me. Did you ever—”

“Oh! Oh, I see,” Aziraphale nods, holding a hand out to settle him, _yes, I get it, sorry for being dense_. “Sorry, I uh, hm,” he looks away primly. “Well, I’ve mistaken other red heads for you before,” he offers a little shyly and Crowley chuckles. “Your complexion is certainly unique though, usually they run so fair,” Aziraphale reaches out and runs a few fingers up Crowley’s tanned arm.

“So, no, it sounds like, you’re just,” Crowley waves the arm that Aziraphale’s not petting in a gesture.

“Yes, it’s,” Aziraphale waves loftily, “just me being anxious, I suppose.”

“Sorry,” Crowley shrugs a little, smiling privately at the fact that Aziraphale’s hands are still petting his forearm.

Aziraphale sidles a little closer, raising an eyebrow in question as he settles his hands on Crowley’s waist. “I’ve been working a little on the vows, too,” Aziraphale offers softly, tilting his head up and just perusing the faint curve of Crowley’s lips, a barely there smile which is more easily readable in his eyes which are faintly hidden by glasses.

“Mmhmm?” Crowley is doing his best not to lean in and kiss because they’re still making the pretense of having a conversation. His smile grows a little more prominent as he watches Aziraphale tilt and observe him with fondness, though. _How many smiles have you hidden from me behind those glasses, serpent?_

“I think I might want someone in Limbo to review them,” Aziraphale steps back, shaking himself a little of the pheromones which are nearly driving him to pounce on the demon right then and there.

“Ah,” Crowley nods. “Micaiah might, but eh, I can think of a few others who might have more experience or a better take on it,” Crowley gestures a little. “The real question is, who would officiate this? Like, I can stand in a church but it’s not, I don’t think we should have it there.”

“Oh, you can stand in a church, can you?” Aziraphale glowers at him. “I don’t think anyone would want to watch you hopping around, and I wouldn’t want you to have to—”

Crowley lays a finger to his lips with a chuckle, “I went in a church sometime recently, and it’s not like that anymore. Just really, _really_ hot, like a sauna but _worse_.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale pops back from the finger on his lips, looking surprised. “Oh, hm. Well, still, no churches. You know how I feel about organized religion,” Aziraphale sighs deeply, gesturing sharply away from himself.

Crowley shakes his head with another laugh. “When we talk over the vows, we can ask around down there?” Crowley shrugs.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale rubs his fingers over his lips in thought, eyes on the far wall. “Do you think we’ll have to use our old names with the ceremony? To make it stick?”

Crowley’s panic and horror hits him so hard that he jerks bodily back as if smacked and Aziraphale jumps and starts forward, “No, I, no, sorry, I was more worried about mine, Crowley, please,” he manages to catch the demon’s hands and pull him into a tight hug as Crowley pants in terror. “Shh, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t ask that of you, Crowley, sorry, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Ssssorry,” Crowley mumbles, bringing shaking hands up to pet Aziraphale’s hair and shoulders. “’Ziraphale,” Crowley rasps, licking his lips. “Naming magic doesn’t usually work like that,” he lets out a shaky breath.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nods into his chest. “I’m sorry, I just, I… people have been calling me, uhm, Raphael again and it’s…” he heaves a deep sigh.

“’S okay,” Crowley pets his back. “’s not a bad name, at least,” Crowley adds softly.

Aziraphale huffs in Crowley’s chest, and pulls back to look at him. “What, and, uhm,” he narrowly avoids saying _Behemoth_ with a quick dart of his head to himself, _no, don’t_, “yours was?”

“Let’s uhm,” Crowley gestures shakily out of the kitchen towards the couch. “Need to sit,” he leans hard on the counter as he begins walking out there and Aziraphale follows him nervously.

Crowley sprawls on the couch, laying back and Aziraphale chuckles a little, settling across from him and picking the demon’s feet up to settle them in his lap.

“S’pose it’s in the way they said it,” Crowley offers softly, a hand over his eyes with his glasses dangling in the other, hanging off the couch. “They were terrified of me.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale is carefully not petting or massaging, doing his best to not incite any more attacks or pain or anything else.

“Why’d you switch yours?” Crowley asks, lifting his arm and peering at him from under the shade of his hand.

Aziraphale is sitting a little stiffly, eyes dim on the coffee table for a long moment.

“Sorry,” Crowley adds, sinking back and resting his hand over his eyes again, folding his glasses clumsily onto the table, “Don’t have to tell me, sorry.”

“No, Crowley, it’s,” Aziraphale sighs deeply. “I… I was a commander of Heaven’s armies, you know,” he gestures away from himself, eyes dull. “_The_ commander, really,” he grumbles, rubbing his cheek and feeling frustrated with himself. He snaps and suddenly there’s two very large quilts which he wraps himself up in, sinking into the armchair across from the demon. A steaming cup of cocoa appears next to him as well, miracled by either party, it’s hard to say which.

“Y’don’t—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbles, holding his gaze hard on where the demon’s eyes are hidden until he looks over at him bleakly. “You’ve shared so much with me—”

“You don’t _owe_ me, Aziraphale. It’s fine,” Crowley grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I am really not comfortable with how uneven you’d let things be,” Aziraphale chews his lip, curling his legs up and considering miracling yet another quilt to smother himself in. “If I let you, you’d just destroy yourself to be exactly what I want, and I... Crowley, that’s not what I want,” his eyes are sharp and silver in spite of the setting sun outside. “This is a partnership. We need to be on even ground. I will not take advantage of your kindness.”

“’m not kind!” Crowley grouses, throwing his hands up and Aziraphale let’s out a long, low grumble in response.

“I will not take advantage of _you_. There, alright?” Aziraphale sighs.

“Mmm,” Crowley grumbles. 

“May I continue?” Aziraphale primly sips his cocoa and Crowley rolls his eyes before glowering over at him.

“Yessss, please,” he sighs. “Y’really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, y’re much more, ya don’t have panic attacks or whatever about shit, so clearly it’s fine,” he waves his hand dismissively and Aziraphale stills.

“We all process things differently,” Aziraphale offers after a moment, eyes dull on his cup. “I appreciate that you feel safe enough to let me help you with your panic attacks.”

“Mmm,” Crowley sighs, looking away from him at the ceiling.

“I…” Aziraphale’s voice catches in his throat and Crowley looks over at him in concern. “I usually just bottle things up, honestly,” he gives him a watery smile. “No one needs to know.”

“You’ve always been the king of denial,” Crowley sighs, eying him but not moving from his position languishing on the couch.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale offers and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“_I’m _sorry, alright? Let’s just forget this even happened, eh? I’ll go get some more wine and we can get on with the night,” he pushes himself up and walks a little jerkily into the kitchen.

“I’m still going to tell you about it,” Aziraphale calls and he hears Crowley breaking some glassware and grousing loudly before miracling it back.

“You’re insufferably stubborn, you know,” Crowley sighs. “Here, got some whiskey, want me to add a little to your cocoa?” Aziraphale shakes his head, pulling his cup away quickly.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” he sniffs, and Crowley holds his eyes, smirking darkly as he downs half his glass, _yeah, and? What are you going to do about it?_

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, taking a deep breath. “Well, I was the commander of heaven’s armies. I prided myself on keeping everyone alive, I healed all of my troops and made sure that the walking wounded were cared for. It was… difficult, we were thinning more and more with each battle and it seemed like there were constantly more demons, as if they were reproducing or something.”

Crowley shrugs a little ineffectually, “Think one of the other contenders for king was into imps, we had a big population boost for a while.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale looks at him surprised.

“Sorry, go on,” Crowley gestures.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighs deeply. “Well, the battle that took my wing, we’d… we’d been coming close to some sort of armistice. Michael was out front, he liked being up front and talking and _looking_ like the commander of the troops, which I was fine with,” he waves his hand a little dismissively. “Worked out well once they demoted me, but,” he huffs a little. “Anyway, anyway, Michael was talking and it looked like this might be it, maybe we’d finally be able to stand down and get back to rebuilding things. But then, a slew of hellhounds came out of nowhere, and three of them went after Michael, and I jumped in. More just kept coming, and then their masters came, and it was…” he lets out a shaky breath.

“Stay with me,” Crowley offers softly, holding his glass in both of his hands and watching Aziraphale intently.

“You know,” Aziraphale sniffs, “for the longest time, I blamed it on the pain. Oh, _it hurt_, but really. Really, I was _angry._ I was so _livid_ that these demons were so _blisteringly_ stupid that they would throw away peace when it was so close, and I just,” he gestures out sharply as if tossing something away, nearly toppling his cocoa. “I lost it,” his voice breaks and he trembles a little.

“’m coming over there,” Crowley sighs, roughly setting his glass down and Aziraphale squeaks as Crowley somehow manages to ensconce himself _within_ the layers of blankets, holding Aziraphale tightly from behind.

“I, uhm,” Aziraphale takes a hearty gulp of air. “Uhm, thank you dear,” he pats the lanky arm wrapped tightly around his waist. “I’m okay, it’s just—”

“I know,” Crowley mumbles from his shoulder. “Uhm. Do they do, uh, levels with you?”

“Levels?” Aziraphale quivers a little and Crowley gently takes his cocoa from his shaky hands and sets it on the end table next to him.

“A number, for how upset you are,” Crowley gestures a little.

“Oh, uhm, well, Lilo’s made me uh, name things?”

“Give me a number, one’s nothing, totally okay, no big thing, one hundred is ‘I feel like I’m dying,’” Crowley softly rubs along Aziraphale’s forearm, voice mildly muffled in Aziraphale’s collar.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale laughs a little. “Uhm, just, uh, thirty perhaps,” he shrugs a bit.

“Mmm. Leonard makes me stop if I hit fifty,” Crowley sniffs.

“I see,” Aziraphale nods.

“So ya can keep going, if ya want.”

Aziraphale’s face crumples fondly, and he has to stare at the ceiling for a moment to ward off the tears and swallow around a lump in his throat. “You’re so…” he bites back _kind_ with a lot of difficulty. “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Crowley grumbles, squeezing him a little tighter.

Aziraphale laughs a little wetly. “Uhm, well, I… I lost more than half of my men that day because… I wasn’t there to heal them, or direct them, or…” he trails off weakly. “They gave, _Gabriel_ gave me so many medals for it, I—” his voice breaks and he snuffles for a moment. Crowley digs around in his waistcoat and produces his handkerchief after a moment. “Thank you, dear.” Crowley grumbles a little into his collar as Aziraphale honks his nose into it.

“My heart wasn’t in it after that. There were a few more battles, but… eventually we did reach an armistice, but it wasn’t thanks to me,” he sighs deeply. “And every time anyone called me Raphael, it felt like a jab,” he shivers a little, more tears dripping wetly from his chin.

“Number?” Crowley softly takes the handkerchief from him and gently wipes his chin and cheeks.

“Hhh, uh,” Aziraphale whimpers, “oh, it’s actually quite hard to come up with a number sometimes, isn’t it?”

“I know,” Crowley chuckles. “Stop for a moment, take some deep breaths with me,” he inhales deeply, holding out a hand in front of Aziraphale and ticking down fingers as they hold in the inhale and then release. He does this for four breaths before letting them both return to more natural deep breathing.

“Now?” Crowley rubs Aziraphale’s upper arms.

“Mmm, better. Thirty again I think,” Aziraphale hiccups, rubbing his nose.

“Good, good,” Crowley offers softly.

“You’re quite good at this,” Aziraphale laughs a little.

“Mmm,” Crowley smiles, and gently nuzzles his neck. “What’d ya say before? I’m glad ya feel safe enough to let me help you.”

“Mmhmm,” Aziraphale grins and laughs, devolving into a cough after a second.

“Easy,” Crowley gently pats his back, “breathe, Aziraphale.”

“You know,” Aziraphale takes in a shaky breath, “I’ve always loved how it sounds on your tongue.”

“W-what?” Crowley quirks his brows incredulously.

“You make it sound very musical,” he whispers.

“I, uh,” Crowley coughs a little self-consciously. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

Aziraphale chuckles wetly. “I uh, when, I got injured in practically every battle after that. Careless,” he gestures sharply, and irritably tugs the handkerchief from Crowley’s hand to blow his nose again. “When I was convalescing, I dreamed about when I was created originally. Except this time, when He breathed life into me, He called me Aziraphale,” he sniffs. “Probably just a fever dream, but,” he shrugs. “When I got demoted to cherub, I took the opportunity to change it. And, uh, that’s… that’s it.”

“I see,” Crowley nods against his neck. “And the only reason they’re calling you it again is to try to make you pull rank,” Crowley sighs.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs deeply.

“There’s a word that humans use for it,” Crowley offers after a long bout of silence. Aziraphale has managed to delicately peel the quilts off for the most part, leaving them clustered around Crowley’s shoulders while the demon loosely holds him still.

“For what?” Aziraphale gently taps Crowley’s wrists where they’re linked around his torso and the demon releases him. He stands up and stretches out languidly and Crowley bites his lip to watch the musculature playing beneath his clothes.

“Uh,” he starts thickly, “Uh, deadnaming,” he sniffs.

“Oh, oh I see,” Aziraphale nods and turns around. Crowley quickly, guiltily, darts his eyes up to his face, lip still bitten and flushed. Aziraphale smirks at him.

“How’re ya feeling?” Crowley sniffs, pulling himself back in the chair.

“Much better, thank you,” Aziraphale smirks, making Crowley squeak as he slinks in to straddle him in the chair.

“Uh, are you, are you uh,” Crowley starts, rearing away from him and worriedly looking him over.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale leans back, tilting his head.

“What?” Crowley’s voice cracks embarrassingly and he gulps grumpily.

“I like that ‘levels’ thing. I know, I know you said you get sort of, lost, right?” Aziraphale gestures and Crowley’s eyes dart around desperately for a moment before he allows himself a nod. “What if we used it in bed?” Aziraphale leers a little, leaning forward.

“Uhm, I’m… can you back off for a moment, I can’t, I can’t think,” Crowley pants a little, and Aziraphale obligingly stumbles out of the chair and steps back.

“I don’t want to… uh, I don’t want to confuse trauma counselling with sex, Aziraphale,” Crowley looks up at him bleakly.

“Well… hmm,” Aziraphale sighs, drumming his fingers on his lips. “Well we don’t have to use numbers?”

“We already have a safe word, angel,” Crowley sighs, rubbing his face.

“Yes, but you… you push yourself when it’s not necessary, I know you do,” Aziraphale taps his foot and Crowley glowers up at him from where he’s sunk and slid low in the armchair, still surrounded by colorful quilts. “I’ll have to think about it, maybe… I think I read something about people using colors, like, red for stop, and green for go—”

“_We have a safe word_,” Crowley grits.

“I think what y-we, we need is uhm, a yellow, a mid-ground. Something where w-we won’t feel guilty, if we have to take a pause. Not an absolute stop, just something that says, ‘I need a sec.’”

“D’ya think I don’t notice you using that patronizing ‘we,’ angel?” Crowley grumbles. 

“But I’m going to use it too!”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’ve had to safe word out before, ‘cause you’re,” Crowley sighs deeply palming his face. “You really picked a winner with me, I’m telling ya.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale squats down so that his head is level with Crowley’s, holding his eyes intently. “This is for both of our safety and mental health. It’s a tool, to help us make sure we don’t hurt each other. You don’t want to hurt me, right?”

“No, no of course not, and no, I know, you don’t want to hurt me, _I know_, fuck! I’m not a child, angel,” Crowley grouses.

“I’m not suggesting you are,” Aziraphale offers earnestly. “I love you _desperately_ and—”

“And you don’t want to hurt me, I know. I appreciate it, I just,” he sighs deeply and straightens himself up in the chair. “Can’t stand being taken care of, sometimes,” he jitters.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Aziraphale smirks and Crowley huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Look, uh, you said you had some of your vows done, eh?” Crowley stands and stretches widely. “Why don’t we take a look at them and then turn in?”

“That sounds like a great idea, dear,” Aziraphale gently pats his wrist.


	17. Chapter 17

Warlock visits for another training session on a Wednesday this time as he had some project that he couldn’t avoid on Tuesday afternoon. Aziraphale tries to get the trainer to glom onto him and his angelic energies, even brings out a few old artefacts to tempt it to change focus, but the bauble just keeps honing in on various pieces of Crowley much to their mutual frustration.

On Thursday, Crowley waits in the car and watches as Aziraphale conducts a few second interviews of angels. None of them pass, and of course, no archangels visit since they’re out in the middle of the countryside.

“We could just drive out to the cottage now,” Aziraphale offers breathlessly as he lets himself into the Bentley, eying Crowley as he goes still.

“Need to stop by my flat and get some more clothes and the like,” Crowley shrugs after a moment, “Got a meeting with Urnnie tomorrow anyway, so I should stay in London tonight.”

“Oh, oh, you contacted him?” Aziraphale smiles and Crowley nods lightly, easing them into traffic with only a little haste.

“Is he—do you think he’ll accept?”

“We’ll come up with something, angel,” Crowley shakes his head with a smile.

* * *

Once Crowley gets to his flat, he finds that he’s suddenly very tired. Hotel beds and Aziraphale’s bed are certainly _nice,_ the latter especially, but there’s something about his very own bed, even if it’s currently caged in a modernist prison that he himself designed.

He collapses into such a deep, dead sleep that he wakes sometime after 2 pm to people rabidly knocking on his front door and screaming. His alarms have been going off for over two hours, and apparently people are getting a little tired of that based on the bloodthirsty howling of three or four humans trying to claw their way into his flat.

Crowley gestures to turn off the alarms, and it hurts his head so much to do any sort of magic that he very nearly blacks out.

_Well._ Crowley takes a few deep breaths to try and sort out exactly why his magic is suddenly so far out of grasp, but sometimes it happens like this. The wear and tear of hiding a giant draconic beast within a small, humanoid/snake demon package catches up with him and he’s just bloody useless for a bit. His head is fuzzy, and it feels vaguely like he should be remembering something, but as he tries to concentrate on it, his head just throbs and his vision goes dim around the edges.

He’d sloshed into his flat last night from the soggy rain, showered quickly, and just gone to bed. Right?

Well, whatever, maybe he got drunk or something too, what matters now is taking care of the passel of still very angry people pounding on the door to his flat. He struggles out of his bed and holds his head in his hands for a count of fifteen so that he can miracle all the people in the vicinity to forget that this ever happened. He blacks out for a few minutes after that and finds he’s fallen onto his floor from his bed, and he’s got a lovely blood stain from a nosebleed on his dark gray carpet. Oh, and his phone is ringing. _Of course_ it is.

“H’lo?” he mutters, and he knows he sounds even worse than after the apocalypse and Aziraphale will have _questions_. Questions that even he doesn’t really have the answers to, but _sod it_, like he’s going to disappoint his angel.

“Oh, good,” Urnnie’s voice is smooth and easy and not at all what he wants to hear right now. “Gotta reschedule, Cro-owley,” he always manages to add an extra syllable around the ‘o’ in his name, warbling it somehow.

“Tha’ right?” Crowley mutters, dragging himself into his bathroom with a hand to his drooling nose.

“I’m just gonna be a little late, ‘s all,” Urnnie sniffs, “Ran into some customs issues.”

Crowley pointedly turns his mirror towards the wall because he is utterly covered in blood and also disturbingly monstrous to look at. He’s never seen his true form from the outside, but right now the dragon is slinking so close under the surface that no one could mistake him for a meek, mild-mannered snake demon.

“’S alright,” Crowley gulps thickly. “Sssslept in,” he mutters, turning the sound up on the phone and setting it down on the counter so that he can begin washing his face.

Urnnie scoffs, “Ya always took sloth too seriously.”

“Y’know me,” Crowley sputters a laugh.

“See ya in an hour and a half, eh?” Urnnie grunts as he maneuvers something around on his side.

“Sssounds good.”

* * *

An hour and a half is plenty of time to get to Limbo from his flat, but it’s not quite enough to put himself back together. He’s pulled and pushed himself into a more humanoid package, but it’s left him with a throbbing headache and a complete inability to do a damn thing magically, lest his more primal aspect rear its ugly head. It’s frustrating and has him in a set of wraparounds of the sort that are usually seen on the octogenarian set, feeling terribly vulnerable, mortal even. If someone were to throw a curse or a spell at him right now, he’d be completely and utterly helpless to do a damn thing about it. Well, besides shunting out his true form to deal with it, but that’s so far beyond a real, tangible thing that he’ll ever consider doing that it’s laughable.

_How do people live like this?_ Crowley grouses, purposefully stalking through the crowd in Limbo. The social center is easy enough to get to, it’s just always clustered and thronging with people and he has an insurmountable headache and a stronger dislike of being touched than usual. The social center looks somewhat like an old train station: long lines and turnstiles, aisles and aisles of strange, plastic pods that hint at train bays, housing little tables for people to talk in private. He could have forced Urnnie to come through to the elven sandwich shop, but it was enough to get him from America into Limbo. They still made you go through customs if you were going to be crossing over to talk to someone from another part of the planet, and forcing Urnnie to go through that and _then_ traverse London when he’s going to turn right back around and head home had just seemed unnecessary. Crowley’s brought absolutely nothing along except for his wallet, his phone, and his clothes so customs is a breeze for him.

Crowley puts down the money for a pod, and pays the extra fee to make it screened and private. Normally he’d just take care of the whole obfuscation thing himself, but he’s so desperately out of commission that he forces the clerk to run a credit card rather than miracle the payment through. He’s gotten there before Urnnie, so he texts the fellow demon the pod id as he weaves through the crowds into the back area.

Crowley buys a small, shitty coffee from a vending machine while he keeps an eye out on the general vicinity. It’s still Limbo, and it’s still neutral ground, but he’s feeling particularly jumpy at the moment. Once there’s a small enough lull in the crowd that he can dart through, he jerkily walks towards the pod in time to see Urnnie wrenching the door open and swinging a heavy bag onto the table before slotting the door closed. The glass goes frosty and opaque as Crowley walks up and opens the door himself.

“Ah,” Urnnie starts, and looks him up with a slight frown, “Ya’ve looked better.”

Crowley chuckles, “Been a weird year.”

“Ya can say _that _again,” Urnnie sighs, itching under his dirty blue baseball cap. They regard each other for a moment, a mutual sizing up and assessing. Eventually Urnnie reaches into his bag and digs out a ratty spiral bound notebook and flips through the tattered pages.

“I appreciate you coming out here,” Crowley starts, drumming his thin fingers on the plastic tabletop and wishing he’d drafted a physical counteroffer. He doesn’t have any paperwork with him besides a scribble of what he’d already offered to Urnnie for the position: _protection while in Tadfield, all expenses covered while tutoring the antichrist._ It’d be a sweet deal if they were human and such simple pleasures were all they needed.

“’m honored you’d pick me, ‘f all demons,” Urnnie gestures a little wide, and pulls his fraying bag that may once have been a denim backpack onto the floor. Crowley quirks a brow at him, smiling in spite of himself. “Gotta negotiate though, y’know, spirit ‘f the thing.”

“Of course,” Crowley grins, delighted.

“Uh, f-first,” Urnnie’s mouth twists a little and he scratches the back of his head. “Does his, uhm, Himself, know?” he points down a little obliquely with the hand that had been itching his neck.

Crowley shakes his head no very minutely.

Urnnie lets out a deep breath. “’Kay, right. Well, here,” he rips out a sheet from his notebook and pushes it over to Crowley. His handwriting is a little overlarge and loopy, but it’s easy enough to read. It’s mainly just a sweetening of the pot; all of Crowley’s promises, plus a little more.

Crowley’s mouth twitches into a tiny smile a few times as he reads through it. “Am I allowed to visit at least?” he asks, gesturing for a pen from Urnnie who looks a little amazed that he’s agreeing to it so easily. All Urnnie wants is for Crowley to leave the continental United States to him, no wiling, no cursing, nor magicking of any sort for the next five hundred years. He’s been trying to annex North America for the past few centuries, and it’s been a bit of a struggle. Having the longest standing demonic agent on Earth sign away his rights to any sort of demonic wiles in America will likely get the ball rolling (finally).

“Sure, ‘course. ‘m not gonna say ya can’t set foot, jus, y’know,” he hands Crowley a ballpoint pen gummy with grease, the clip snapped half-off.

“No magic or wiling for the next half-millennium in or around your territory,” he nods, wiggling the pen between his fingers with just a small flicker of disgust between his brows at the state of it. He might ask _is that really all that you want? _but he won’t look a gift tutor in the mouth. “Agreed,” he signs his name into the paper and presses two fingers next to it to indent his sigil next to it.

“W-well,” Urnnie looks surprised. “When do I start?” he grins loosely.

* * *

“Well, I’m glad it was so easy,” Aziraphale sighs, letting his hand out of the car window to ride the currents.

“I was surprised he didn’t want anything more, honestly,” Crowley shakes his head, still in disbelief. He’s taken so much stuff for his headache that his ears are ringing, and he still doesn’t really dare doing anything more magical than maybe fixing a crease in his coat. Aziraphale seems blissfully unaware of his current state though, so it’s enough for now. Wouldn’t want to worry him, after all.

“I’m going to have to branch out more, soon,” Aziraphale sighs and Crowley glances idly at him through the corner of his eye. He has to tilt his head a little with the wraparounds blinkering him.

“Who knew angels were so incompetent?” Crowley’s mouth completely betrays him with a snarky grin as Aziraphale glowers at him.

* * *

They stop in at the restaurant that had such great alfredo last time, though sadly it’s not quite so fantastic this time. Crowley still eats two servings, nonetheless. He’s not really hot on the idea of showing Aziraphale the cottage in its currently unfinished state, especially with how he’s trying to turn it into a temptation for him. _Yes, here, see this pile of rotted wood and discarded moldering wallpaper? D’ya want to move in with me? Eh???_

Yeah, he’s going to have to get over it, he knows, but for now he just drags Aziraphale to the hotel that he’s been staying at while he works on the cottage.

“D’ya… d’ya think the whole thing with the guardianship will muck that up?” Crowley frowns as he hefts one of Aziraphale’s bags over his shoulder to walk down the hall.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale is only carrying his small beige day bag and looking very pleased with himself to have Crowley so dutifully carrying along all of their luggage.

“Well, America’s part of… well, everything,” Crowley pants, pausing in front of the door to lean over the luggage and catch his breath, “’Course it is, y’know.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale frowns at his flush, a little surprised that he’s not just miracled the door open and hefted all of their luggage in with a little magical push. “Considering what we’re accomplishing with it, I think he’d rather we included America rather than excluded it,” Aziraphale plucks the keys from where they’re cramped in Crowley’s fist along with the handles of three suitcases, and slots them into the door. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Peachy,” Crowley huffs, lugging their bags in with more grunting and grumbling. 

Aziraphale huffs a little, eying him, “Why do I feel like you’re lying to me?”

Crowley groans internally. “Got a bad headache, ‘s all,” he rubs his head and rolls his neck and shoulders a little.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale squints at him more and Crowley coolly holds his gaze from behind his blocky octogenarian glasses. “How many glasses do you actually own?”

Crowley barks a laugh in surprise. “Too many, honestly,” he pulls his hair back into a loose tail. “Probably gonna have to put in an actual physical case for them in the new place, keep getting new ones,” he grins loosely at him.

“Yes, you still have those old jeweled ones from Rome, I know,” Aziraphale smiles fondly at him.

“’Course. Can’t wear ‘em today, but yeah,” he rubs his forehead again.

* * *

Crowley drags Aziraphale out to walk around the town that the cottage and his hotel are in, pulling the angel into a gritty bar when he starts veering the conversation towards _perhaps we could stop by the cottage tonight?_

Once they finish their greasy fast food, Crowley drives them up to the nearby make out point to look at the stars.

“You’re lucky I came prepared,” Aziraphale sniffs, pulling a cabernet from his beige bag with a toss of his head.

“My savior,” Crowley rolls his eyes, taking the bottle and popping the cork with ease. They hand the bottle back and forth like old times, and stare up at the stars. Crowley feels a little off still, and peering up at the stars that he made doesn’t always help his mood. But perhaps halfway through the bottle (Aziraphale may have been miracling it fuller, he can’t tell) and deep into a conversation about the Julian calendar, he’s feeling more relaxed.

“I jus’ don’t see why we can’t hav’ leap years _every _year,” Aziraphale wiggles the bottle in his hand as Crowley smirks drowsily at him.

“If,” Crowley sniffs pointedly, yanking the bottle from where Aziraphale’s starting to tip it nearly far enough to dump the remaining contents. “_Iff_, if it’s, it’sss, it’s not speci’l then, ang’l,” Crowley grumbles, taking a healthy gulp and holding the bottle out of Aziraphale’s grasp with a smug smirk. Aziraphale pouts petulantly at him, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his lips.

It’s a night like so many other nights in their devastatingly long history, so Crowley might be excused for losing himself in Aziraphale’s unfathomably blue-black eyes and letting his thoughts turn morose. He wrestles with his self-control as his eyes dart over Aziraphale’s face, the habitual grooves of millennia holding him back, not letting him dip his head down to kiss the angel the way he might have done just the night before.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale grins at him indulgently, and pulls him down to him quite forcefully, nipping his self-sabotage in the bud. “Take me back to the hotel,” his breath is hot and wine soaked, and his eyes linger desperately on Crowley’s bitten lips.

_We get to do this now,_ Crowley remembers in a rush, grinning like a mad man, and something taut in his chest loosens.

He may miracle them back to the hotel for how fast they get back there, he’s not sure. He’s vaguely aware of a few humans tittering at their tightly clasped hands, or the way that they keep looking at each other like newlyweds on their honeymoon. Aziraphale pops the door open with a wave, and the second the door clicks shut, Crowley’s got him jammed up against a wall, kissing the air out of his lungs. Aziraphale’s practically crawling up the demon, arms slung around his shoulders and legs clung around his hips as he gives as good as he gets, mouth possessively locked with Crowley’s.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale pants as Crowley hungrily bites his neck and fumbles with the clothes between them. “Th-there’s a bed,” he huffs as Crowley braces Aziraphale against the wall and unbuttons his slacks with single-minded conviction. Crowley couldn’t explain it, but there’s something far more frenetic this time, like he’s gone ice cold and the angel is roaring fire. There’s something bubbling under the surface that he can’t name, something he doesn’t want to think about but it’s there, it’s… _there_, and with Aziraphale’s soft warm lips against his it finally breaks through.

A twist of a smirk on unkind lips: _Come home. _

Crowley rockets away from the angel, panting and _remembering_, a sudden flurry of crushed down memories flooding back to him with the taste of copper on his bitten tongue.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Crowley chants as Aziraphale frowns hazily at him from where he’s still oddly rumpled against the wall. Crowley rucks off his stupid scarf and rips his turtleneck at the seams to reveal a brightly glowing collar around his throat that he begins wrestling with. His glamour flickers as he very nearly shifts into his true form to try to claw off the glittering thing around his neck.

Crowley had come back to his flat, and there’d been more summons in a huge mound on his front desk. He’d irritably miracled them out of existence, right into his little incinerator. It really wasn’t something he should have been able to do, just shuffle a _heap_ of Lucifer’s very intent spellwork around like it’s nothing, but he had done exactly that. He’s had a lot of experience curling and twisting away from naming and finding magic through the years, something his fluid nature made somewhat easier.

When one more had shuffled through the little mail slot, he’d just waved to move it to the incinerator as well without a thought and hadn’t really noticed that it had been a reverse-summons; a push rather than a pull. He’d turned to find a very large and very bright demon standing in his pristine kitchen smiling like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh Crowley,” Lucifer smiles very widely, “How _funny_. After all this time, it really is you.”

“D—uhm, I, uh,” Crowley stammers, mind blue screening to have the King of Hell standing in his flat, and didn’t he have protections, and is this a nightmare, and—

“Behemoth, darling, oh,” Lucifer croons as he steps towards him, holding his hands out as if he wants a hug. “Oh, it’s been so long, let me see you,” he purrs, unkindly ripping off Crowley’s glasses and crunching them in his overlarge palm.

“I-I think you’re, uhm,” Crowley gulps thickly.

“_Did I say you could speak?_” Lucifer growls, darting forward to stuff his face within inches of Crowley’s and Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. It’s several millennia separated from the memory but it’s still a fresh enough thing for him to remember jerking back from Lucifer’s sharp and fickle demands and retributions. “No, I think _I’ll_ be the one talking here,” he brushes a stray curl out of Crowley’s eyes as Crowley stares resolutely at the wide lapels of his atrociously mustard yellow suit.

“You lied to me, Crowley,” he caresses Crowley’s cheek, forcibly tilting his face up to look him in the eyes. “I’m not very happy with you right now. But we’ll get to that later,” he grins darkly at him and pats his cheek lightly before stepping back to observe him. It’s honestly _more_ unnerving when Satan’s feigning humanity and dull teeth.

“Hell’s changing, and we need you to come back home. That’s the deal. Make some trouble,” he gestures towards Crowley’s flat, perhaps towards all of Earth, “and then you come back to me.”

“N-no,” Crowley somehow manages to mutter through the pulsating panic, breathing a little ragged. “I didn’t agree to it,” he whispers, eyes darting up to Lucifer’s even as he curls his head down to hide behind his hair and tries to sink into himself.

It’s _true, _too. All of the contracts that Lucifer had ever tried to broker with him were faulty because they relied on _implied_ consent, on _oh yes of course you’ll do it, I don’t even need to pause to give you the chance to say yes because the answer is **obviously** yes!_ Perhaps Lucifer had mistakenly thought that Behemoth’s monosyllabic, nonverbal nature meant that he didn’t have to wait for a response. Crowley hadn’t _technically_ said no; he hadn’t technically said yes, though, either.

“Hm,” Lucifer regards him from behind hooded eyes for a moment, and Crowley shivers under his regard. “You left before I could give you this, my pet,” Lucifer starts softly and he’s suddenly too close again and raising his hands around Crowley’s head. Crowley wants to jerk back, get away, but there’s a soft _click_ like a necklace clasp latching and instead, the world seems to jerk around him. 

It’s bright, it’s constantly bright, and it feels like a hand around his neck _yeeugh _and there’s someone, or rather some_thing_ very large and horrifying sounding growling somewhere nearby. Crowley’s entire right arm feels numb and cold before he absent-mindedly pulses fire at it to keep it, him, _something_ away, _no don’t come, don’t, stay away stay safe_.

“Stop hiding,” Lucifer purrs in his face, and Crowley steps back rapidly to see him so close and the growling stops for a second, exchanged for terrified panting. _Oh, that’s me_.

Lucifer smirks at Crowley whose glamour is absolutely shot, still humanoid but bursting at the seams with magic and livid draconic menace. “You’re mine, Behemoth. Don’t you forget that.” 

_I’m not yours_, Crowley wants to snarl but his larynx is currently not the sort fit to be in a human body so it just comes out as a low, threatening rumble.

“Oh,” Lucifer looks down at his own hand in mild curiosity, something glimmering red there. “Oh, you know I’ve been seeing this crop up all over Hell. Thought we had an epidemic until you handed me Rosier,” he smiles, unspooling the sickening curse from his hands. He steps up very suddenly to Crowley who’s backed into his granite counter, and kisses his forehead, coiling the curse there like a spring trap to destroy anyone who tries to touch his handiwork.

“Mmm,” Lucifer smiles down at him, and Crowley is frozen in horror looking up at him. “Come home,” Lucifer husks, his own glamour shimmering off so it’s fangs and black sclera with glowing yellow irises peering at him. Crowley’s vaguely aware of the smell of burning flesh coming from somewhere. The ugly mustard yellow suit is melting in a gruesome manner around Lucifer’s chest but Lucifer seems pleased and unaffected in spite of the pain he must be feeling. Corporations are a dime a dozen to him, after all.

“Come home, my pet, I’ve missed you.”

Something _works_ at that point, something snaps and it’s not Crowley, he’s struggling just to stay humanoid, but Lucifer is gone not entirely of his own volition and Crowley erupts away from his granite countertop and begins clawing at the collar on his neck. He wrestles and nearly wrings his own neck, exhausting himself fighting against something built to cage him in the more that he thrashes against it. He falls into bed after some amount of time, crying and horrified and aching and something _clicks_ as he falls asleep, another piece of the charm that Lucifer’s lanced onto him.

_You won’t remember this tomorrow morning. Come back to me, my pet. Come home._

* * *

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, kneeling before him, horrified at the glowing band and the bloody clawing that Crowley’s leaving around his neck, “Crowley, _Crowley_, please, let me help.” Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s hands and draws them down and Crowley whines unhappily. Aziraphale’s eyes dart over the glowing band and he’s glowing himself, a soft comforting thing in comparison to Lucifer’s hard light.

Aziraphale draws both of his hands up to begin working them under the band as Crowley pants and leans away from him.

“I know, I _know_, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, dearheart, please just let me get this off you and I’ll never touch your neck again, I promise,” Aziraphale whispers, managing to wrench his fingers and some of his palm under the band to begin tearing it back.

“K-keep talking,” Crowley manages roughly, eyes distant on the far wall behind Aziraphale.

“Okay, okay, uhm, it’s—it’s—it’s going to be alright, it’ll be okay, Crowley,” Aziraphale babbles as he pushes blistering holy magic into the band, concentrating to ensure that it only hits the band and not Crowley’s skin and it’s all very tricky actually. “_I am going to kill whoever did this_,” Aziraphale grits as the band begins to slowly unzip under his magical pressure, finally wrenching his hands underneath it enough to grab two sides of it and _pull_, further helping the undoing of it.

“Nnnn,” Crowley whimpers, wiggling uselessly.

“It’s, I’ve almost got it, okay, stay still,” Aziraphale pants a little, and as the band finally snaps Crowley suddenly jerks forward and grabs Aziraphale’s hands and _yanks_.

“Nonono,” he pants and for a second Aziraphale’s aware of a roiling red curse on his hands, somewhat familiar to him that Crowley immediately pulls back and palms into himself. Crowley pants heartily against the wall, almost immediately going clammy and feverish and whining.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asks softly, tilting his head to get a better look at the scratch marks that Crowley’s left around his jaw and throat.

“Hhhh,” Crowley pants, eyes distant, “Noth—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale glowers. “Come on, let me get some bandages on these deeper gouges,” he stands up shakily, “I suppose I’m going to have to keep touching your neck, I’m sorry.”

“’S fine, y’were,” Crowley gulps thickly and looks up at him with glassy eyes. There’s such a multitude of trust and love there that it very nearly bowls him over.

Aziraphale offers a hand to help him up and Crowley shakily takes it and leans against him, letting Aziraphale draw him into the restroom. Aziraphale cuts off the remains of his turtleneck and smooths ointments and bandages onto the marks around his throat. There are more than the ones he left tonight, a long, dark gouge going down to his collarbones from the night before.

“’S Lucifer,” Crowley rasps softly, tilting a little off balance on the toilet where he’s sat, rocking feverishly.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale sighs. “I thought it might be.”

“Y’can’t—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, holding his shoulders and gesturing upwards to get him to stand. “Come on, let’s get you in bed, dear,” Aziraphale gently leads him over to the bed and pulls the covers down, settling the demon beneath them. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I want you to rest now,” Aziraphale kisses his forehead and Crowley sighs.

“Ssstay,” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s sleeve as he turns to leave. “Pleasssse,” he whines.

“Of course, of course, here, I… I’m going to have to change manually, I think,” Aziraphale waves and Crowley nods, letting him go. Aziraphale wriggles out of his clothes and into his sleep shirt and slinks in next to the demon.

“Sssorr—”

“Shh, dear, you don’t have to apologize, let’s just sleep for now,” Aziraphale whispers, curling up next to the demon with his head carefully below the bandages and away from his neck. He doesn’t sleep, he guards. He lays with his head over the demon’s heart and wraps him in his arms and thinks: _No, **I’m** sorry, I should have been there, my love, I’ll fix this, we’ll fix this._

* * *

Crowley is miserable with a fever and horrific nightmares for the next few days, waking up and pawing at Aziraphale multiple times with faintly clawed hands. He’s struggling to hold onto his normal glamour too, and the little blades of dark magic he’d unsheathed for Aziraphale before are all laid out and he’s… well Aziraphale doesn’t find him terrifying because he knows him and he loves him desperately. The rooms around them in the hotel vacate quite quickly with the sense of something very large and powerful in the vicinity, even if it’s the sort of thing that just wants to relax on a sunny rock and not do a damn thing to you, or at the moment, _not_ be feverish and miserable and just sleep and cuddle with its angel.

A few faint miracles keep the hotel from booting them and looking the other way. Their money is just as good as anyone else’s, and there’s no _concrete_ reason that people don’t seem to want to stay in the rooms around them.

Aziraphale stays by his side, feeding him soups, bathing him when the fevers ease enough that he can stand, soothing and shushing his constant, slurred apologies and pleas.

“It seems like you got it much worse than I did,” Aziraphale sighs, patting away sweat and tears as Crowley whimpers in his sickbed.

“W-well,” Crowley coughs thickly, “he fully… did it.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale starts; Crowley’s actually verbal today.

“Y’can’t take him on, please,” Crowley whispers, reaching a shaking hand up to try to caress Aziraphale’s face but he misjudges badly and gives up, flumping his hand down on the comforter.

“What was it you said,” Aziraphale tilts his head on one of his hands, considering him, “a good scare works better than a mysterious death?”

Crowley frowns at him and takes a deep, congested breath. “D-don’t follow,” he offers after a moment.

“I’ve got an idea, dear, but maybe we should wait until you feel better to talk about it,” Aziraphale gives him a small, sad smile.

Crowley struggles upright with some hissing, and Aziraphale lets him. Crowley’s getting pushed far past his comfort zone with all this being cared for, feeling cossetted. The gouges around his jaw have healed beautifully, and thanks to Aziraphale’s care, the plague has dimmed to the point that he’s just got a really terrible case of the flu.

“Talk,” Crowley snuffles and gestures towards the water that’s on the bedside table.

“Well,” Aziraphale unscrews the plug on the container and hands it over. “Well, you carved out Hell. You can _feel_ the supports, you said,” he gestures a little.

“Mmm,” Crowley nods, considering him with squinted eyes.

“Oh, here,” Aziraphale paws around and hands him the pair of thick glasses he’d been wearing before all this happened. Crowley takes them gratefully, slotting them on and relaxing a little with the extra armor on his face. A little of his draconic enormity knits in closer to him with the addition.

“I… I imagine you could destroy them, just as well,” Aziraphale offers softly, fingers drifting over the comforter near Crowley’s hand and Crowley tilts his head in consideration.

“Hmm,” Crowley sips at the water and coughs a little. “S’pose I could,” he shrugs.

“I watched you pull apart that temple for those pagans,” Aziraphale’s fingers doodle softly and Crowley gives him a surprised look. “You put a lot of magic into it, and then they abused it, ruined it, and,” he makes a motion of tugging something down.

“We’ll go down to Limbo and make an official contract with him,” Aziraphale finally ticks his pale gray eyes up to Crowley’s. Crowley should go still and taut with fear at that, but he just feels tired.

“He won’t,” Crowley sighs, sinking down into the bed and gesturing the canteen over to Aziraphale who catches it a little clumsily.

“I feel… I feel like your expectations of him are tempered by the abuse he’s dished out, dear,” Aziraphale offers softly and Crowley looks over at him bleakly, unfolding the glasses from his face as they’re popping up as he lays back down.

“Did I mention that he erased entire people? Entire very powerful _demons_, Aziraphale?” Crowley grouses, stubbornly ignoring the weird pangs he feels at having the word _abuse_ tossed out in relation to this. Abuse suggests that he does not, did not, deserve Lucifer’s punishments and fickle rages.

“You did,” Aziraphale nods. “But with a proper appointment in Limbo and a strong soul to keep the peace, I think it’s the best shot we have.”

“I think he needs you more than you need him,” Aziraphale adds, “I think if you stand up for yourself, it’s… I think that he’d be terrified to have you actually standing up to him. Running away isn’t going to make this any better.”

“Mmm,” Crowley grumbles, beginning to drift off.

* * *

It takes nearly four more days for the fever to ease, and by then Crowley’s antsy and jitters from the hotel in a rush.

“Come on, let’s go see the cottage,” he mumbles, wrapped in two large sweaters and an old shirt of the angel’s that he’s nicked underneath it all. It’s a bit hilarious to him that he’s willingly taking Aziraphale out to see it at this point, but he can’t stand sitting in the stupid hotel another second.

“It is quite lovely out here,” Aziraphale smiles at the idyllic suburbia they’re driving through and all Crowley can manage is a disinterested _mmm,_ mind in a thousand different places at once.

“Y-you do like it, right?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley nearly drives directly into a tree for staring at the angel in confusion.

“Like what?” Crowley grunts after he maneuvers around Aziraphale’s shouts. The tree and the fence surrounding it find themselves suddenly about a yard to the left.

“You’re, you like this location? You don’t want to go farther out?”

Crowley turns up the dead-end road that leads to the cottage, frowning still. He doesn’t answer until he pulls up to the cottage itself. It’s sadly still pretty dingy looking, the exterior walls that are still standing bear flaking yellow paint, and the new walls look stark and mismatched next to them. He’s hung a proper door in the front, but got distracted making sure the foundation and second floor were up to snuff before rehanging any of the windows.

“Yeah, I like it,” Crowley sniffs, staring ostensibly at the cottage but actually watching Aziraphale take in the scenery. Aziraphale has a small, wondering smile on his face that makes Crowley a little concerned. _But well_, _best get this over with, _he thinks and tries to brace himself. They exit the Bentley and Crowley doesn’t even have to open Aziraphale’s door for him, he gets out on his own and wanders up to the cottage with a preoccupied look on his face.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, frowning now.

“Oh, there’s even a little path down to the beach,” Aziraphale states dreamily, staring behind the cottage and looking somehow younger than he has in millennia.

“And you scoffed at me about the ocean,” Crowley smirks, shaking his head and falling into step behind him. Something _zings_ when Aziraphale steps onto the property, not unlike when Crowley had done so, and Crowley stumbles a little at the feeling. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, just keeps looking around wildly, walking towards the back of the house unconsciously, trying to take everything in.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley calls, jogging a little to catch up with him.

“Oh! Ley lines,” Aziraphale coos, and Crowley can’t get out a “Wait!” before Aziraphale does exactly what he’d done, dipping down to run his hands through them as if petting a cat or dog and jumping back as if bitten.

Crowley steps up to Aziraphale’s shoulder, warily watching the apple tree, but instead he has to take a solid step back as something bright white and heavenly sprouts from the ground where the two ley lines crisscross, looking somewhat like a young tree unfurling but very clearly _not_.

“_Oh_,” Aziraphale’s voice is ragged, and this time Crowley gets a heady fill of Aziraphale’s desperately large emotions, something ancient, torn and longing bleeding from the angel’s chest as the light dims enough for Crowley to see the ley line’s gift. It’s a staff, taller than either of them naturally, but with their currently diminutive human height it shrinks to just below Aziraphale’s height. Two brilliantly white and glittering snakes with tucked-in wings coil and flex around it, and Crowley can’t help a mild smirk at the fact. Aziraphale rather has always had a thing with snakes, hasn’t he?

“Well,” Crowley leans an elbow on Aziraphale’s shoulder, trembling a little with Aziraphale’s borrowed emotions still clanging in his chest, “take it. It’s yours.” He’s only partially talking about the caduceus spun from the ether, but Aziraphale should know that by now.

“It’s-it’s not,” Aziraphale sounds so broken but he’s already reaching for it as if to caress one of the serpents. “Not anymore,” he whispers, fingers trembling mere centimeters from it.

“I won’t call you by that name,” Crowley offers softly, “But it was made _with_ you and it fits you much better than that truth scepter you’re banging around with right now.”

Aziraphale lets out a noise that might be a choked laugh or a sob and lets his fingers curl around the staff, drawing it possessively to his chest.

“Why?” he looks up at Crowley, eyes wide and wonderous, sopping with tears. “Why now?”

Crowley has to look away from all that earnestness. Aziraphale might think that this was Crowley’s doing, some sort of horrible idea of a present, and he can’t live with the thought. His mouth twists as he manages to roughly reply, “When I got here, it, uh.” He gestures at the tree, “gave me a big fuck-off apple. Just like uh, That one.” He gulps thickly as Aziraphale looks past him, trembling.

“So, uh, no fucking clue, angel.” The look Aziraphale gives him is hunted, and wanting, and longing, and Aziraphale decides utterly and concretely right then and there that this is _their _home now, his and Crowley’s.

“Would… shall I move in with you?” Aziraphale gestures towards the run-down cottage and a long string of emotions flicker over Crowley’s face before he sighs deeply, wiping his face with a palm.

“Uh, if, if you’d like. It’s not ready,” Crowley growls a little with a shrug.

“Why don’t you get some contractors to help, hm? It’s so much trickier to build things with all these codes and electricity and plumbing and,” Aziraphale waves dismissively and Crowley flicks his eyes to him and away a few times.

“’S probably a good idea,” Crowley grumbles, grumpy at the fact that Aziraphale continues to be so bloody sensible and honestly, a perfect foil for his chaos. “What about your shop?” Crowley frowns after a moment.

“Well, I mean, I could just go to your shop and use your door,” Aziraphale shakes his head with an air of _duh, obviously_ which makes Crowley scoff in disbelief. “Or, you could put in a new door. I won’t need the upstairs if we have this,” he gestures and Crowley can’t hold the façade anymore, lips crumpling and tears getting stuck under the edges of the wrap-arounds.

“I love you, you—” Crowley huffs at himself. “You’re ridiculous,” he pulls Aziraphale to him roughly.

* * *

Once Crowley can maintain a non-feverish temperature for more than a few minutes without getting dizzy, they head back to London.

“So, where exactly did he—did it happen?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley mindlessly drives them to the bookshop.

“My flat,” Crowley clicks his tongue a little.

“What?” Aziraphale gawps at him. “But, but—”

Crowley changes direction and drives them to Mayfair instead. He has a very bad panic attack upon reentering the flat, and has to wobble back out to the Bentley and coil himself up in an old quilt he forgot he plunked in the back months ago. Aziraphale dots around the flat, considering the protections and how Lucifer circumvented them. There’s a little drizzle of demonic ooze, like what Ligur’d left, near the countertop along with a very intense smell of Crowley’s fear, and drips of Crowley’s blood around the bedroom.

“I wasn’t expecting _Lucifer_ to pop into your flat, so perhaps I didn’t go overboard enough, for once,” Aziraphale sighs on the way to the bookshop.

“Last he was on Earth was the fourteenth century, so,” Crowley shrugs and Aziraphale peers over at him curiously. “Uh, well, I guess yeah, you’re right, he was here for the apocalypse, true.”

“Do you want to move your stuff into some of my backrooms while we, er, while the cottage is being worked on?”

Crowley peers over at him for long enough that Aziraphale pointedly jerks his head towards the road for him to keep driving and _watch the road_.

“’S an idea,” Crowley gulps.

* * *

That evening, Crowley shears himself again. The curls around his neck are aggravating; his neck is wincingly sensitive at the moment thanks to heavenly and hellish magic warring over it. He goes even shorter than last time, evoking an old military cut. In the odd late-winter humidity that they’re having, it curls oddly around his face somewhat reminiscent of Rome.

“I like your hair however you wear it, truly,” Aziraphale smiles, twiddling a disembodied curl in his fingers. “Would you mind if I kept this?”

Crowley shrugs a little, “I’ll grow it out again, angel. But sure.” 

* * *

Micaiah recommends a small legal team in Limbo which made its name working on cases relating to Asmodeus and, most specifically, restraining orders. Hell had a bit of Me Too moment sometime in the late twentieth century, and many of the Princes who leered and threw around their power with lusty force found themselves suddenly saddled with incredibly dreary legal cases and multiple requests to “please stay no more than two hundred yards from the individual in question, do not engage.” It was only nominally successful because Hell is Hell, and while one Prince might be banned from interacting with someone, they always had a stream of other demons who might transmit the message in hopes of climbing the ladder.

No one’s ever done this sort of thing with Lucifer, though. No one’s ever done this demon-to-demon-to-angel, either. It was mostly soul-to-demon, and thus, the power differential was _vastly_ different. The team is surprisingly game, considering.

Crowley’s supposed to be sitting on one side of the soul, Ruth, who’s monitoring and representing today, while Aziraphale sits on her other side. He’s up and pacing restlessly though, and Aziraphale might like to join him, but he’s rather rooted to the spot by the cool, shaking fury that’s gripping him. This rage is _millennia_ in the making, watching Crowley shiver and brokenly laugh through breakdowns and injuries. It’s taking most of his control to keep the caduceus as a small pin on his chest instead of a glowing heavenly weapon in hand to thrust into Lucifer’s chest the second that he enters the room.

Things are a little _tense_, but it’s to be expected with what’s on the line.

“D’ya think he’ll send Beelzebub instead?” Crowley shivers, shaking his hands from their numbness at being so tautly shoved into his armpits for the past fifteen minutes of pacing.

“Oh,” Ruth looks at him. “You don’t know?”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley pause and look at her and she titters nervously at their sudden intense attention. “Beelzebub’s gone up,” she points up, and quirks her brows up significantly.

Crowley leans back, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. “Oh,” he states quietly, “oh, I see.” He’d never really been sure what Beelzebub’s price had been, their contract, but he knew whatever it was, it was horrifically binding and that they seemed to regret it quite a bit in the beginning. Perhaps they had been bound with something like what Lucifer had just placed on him, he considers. Somehow Beelzebub got out of it though. It makes all that much more sense that right now Lucifer’s after the other half of his rise to power.

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs quietly, and the door slams open at that moment and Lucifer blusters into the room in a very loud magenta suit. Crowley shivers, fighting the urge to rip off his glasses, but Lucifer only has eyes for Aziraphale. He stalks over to the round table and jerks his chair violently so that he’s very pointedly sitting across from the angel.

“Raphael,” he hisses, “or what—what was it you were going by these days?”

“Aziraphale,” he offers tonelessly, considering Lucifer with a doleful blink.

“I’m not sure you know what sort of forces you’re messing with, _Aziraphale_,” Lucifer growls. “You dare try to claim a demon of hell? We are damned, brother, and all the damned belong to _me_.”

Aziraphale considers him icily as Crowley takes his seat. “I cannot claim what is not mine, and neither can you,” he offers after a minute of tense silence. Crowley makes a small sound that might be an incredulous scoff or a cough, and Lucifer turns to him at the sound.

“Behemoth,” Lucifer grins gamely over at Crowley, who narrows his eyes in distaste. “Disobedient as ever. _Glasses_,” he hisses and makes to flick them off of his face but jerks his hand away with a hiss as the new protections Aziraphale has put in place sizzle him. Crowley releases a soft, slow breath, doing his best not to shake.

“You will refer to him as Crowley,” Aziraphale leans forward, pointing a firm finger into the table and clenching his other hand in a fist on the tabletop near himself. “Is that understood?”

Lucifer considers Aziraphale like he’s just done something completely incomprehensible with a smirking smile on his face. It breaks into a beam as he sees the dark ring on his finger.

“Crowley!” Lucifer exclaims and Crowley jumps badly and shivers, “you _shouldn’t have_!” He reaches out, feeling through Crowley’s demonic nature enrobed in the ring to grip at Aziraphale’s essence and Crowley jerks to standing as a shield of blazing stardust shimmers in front of the angel.

“Don’t touch him,” Crowley growls in a low, scared voice.

“Oh, first you send me Gabriel and now this, Crowley, it’s almost like you’re trying to get in my good graces,” Lucifer croons up at him, caressing the stardust shield with a hand. He holds Crowley’s eyes as he sneers and _pushes_ at the shield to get back at the angelic essence twined with Crowley’s demonic one. Lucifer’s powerful and relentless, and Crowley’s best defense is always speed.

Ruth makes a disconcerted noise at that point, raising a finger to try to get the King of Hell’s attention, or well, any of the three’s attention, as this is all getting rather out of hand. It’s all for naught, though.

Crowley darts forward and jams his hand into Lucifer’s, a black contract already twining up Lucifer’s wrist and forearm just as a manifested heavenly staff buzzes threateningly into Lucifer’s other palm where he’s pushing against the shield.

“You will leave Aziraphale alone,” Crowley grits, the thorny vine of his contract coiling tighter up the King of Hell’s arm, “_for all of eternity._” Aziraphale hems pointedly in the background, and a pool of liquid light joins the black vine twining up Lucifer’s arm. It’s _weird_ and intimate to have Aziraphale and his magic touching like this in public, even though they’ve never even done this sort of thing in _private _either. Crowley clears his throat and quietly amends, “And me. You will leave Aziraphale and me alone for eternity.”

“Well,” Lucifer purrs, and saffron yellow light licks up Crowley’s wrist and he has to suppress a shudder at the sensation, similar to what had been wrapped around his throat. “No, I don’t think I will,” he grins. “What in the world would I give this up for, Crowley?”

Crowley tries to say it, and fails with his dry mouth at first. A cool but soothing pulse from Aziraphale gives him the wherewithal to choke out, “I’ll destroy it. Hell. The caverns. The supports. I’ll—It’ll—Gone.”

Not the most eloquent, but it communicates well enough because Lucifer stills and really _looks_ at Crowley for the first time since he’s come in here.

“You wouldn’t,” Lucifer sneers, leaning forward and Crowley shivers to keep himself from stumbling away from him.

“Will,” he manages as Aziraphale stands up, bracing against his staff and considering the two of them.

“You’ll kill Phlegethon and Lethe,” Lucifer leers, “_again_.”

Crowley growls brokenly, and his tightly held grip on his power shatters. It’s been doing that more lately, but that’s a problem that Future Crowley will have to deal with once he manages to make his way through this moment. Ruth jerks away instinctively from what suddenly feels like a _too large_ entity seething with pain and anger next to her.

“_You_ destroyed them,” Crowley snarls, “they were trying to get away from you, they, they—” He bares his fangs, eyes flashing and glowing behind his glasses. “They’ll. They’ll move to the main cavern. They’re not. They’re not _gone_,” Crowley’s lip curls back over his elongated fangs and he looks positively grief-stricken and feral.

“Lucifer,” Aziraphale’s voice is deceptively soft, his eyes cool as he leans forward, still braced with his staff. “I’m going to have to suggest you take this offer,” he considers the King of Hell, almost appearing to be made of marble again. “Because if you do not?” his lips twitch through a faint glimmer of a menacing smile, “well, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”

“This is Crowley’s offer of peace,” Aziraphale gestures towards the quivering demon, radiating anxiety and desperation. “I’m afraid that I will not be so kind,” Aziraphale considers Lucifer with hooded eyes. “We were interrupted last time, Lucifer. I think I can ensure that we’re _not_ this time,” his grin is predatory and Lucifer gulps and leans away from his heavenly wrath.

“Alright,” Lucifer breathes, sounding strained. “Alright,” the contract recoils with a snap from their conjoined hands and Crowley reels back from the touch.

“Well,” Ruth shuffles her papers in front of her and Lucifer finally looks at her.

“Read out the contract,” Lucifer commands with a dismissive snap, and Ruth gives him a reproving look in return.

“We still need to lay out some more of the specifics,” she hums, tilting the parchment towards her as the dark ink spools out and the contract firms. “But as it stands, we have the following: Lucifer, King of Hell, will leave the angel of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale, and the serpent of Eden, Crowley, alone for the extent of eternity, on penalty of the realm of Hell being reduced to its primal state. Does that sound about right? I’m leaving out your little threat, considering it was contingent on him _not_ accepting the prior commitment,” she sneers at Aziraphale who might have huffed a laugh were he still not so marblelike.

“Right,” Crowley croaks.

“What if one of your supports falls, Crowley?” Lucifer purrs with a menacing smile.

“They won’t,” Crowley’s lip curls reflexively. “If you weaken them in an attempt to get me back down there,” he waves dismissively, pulling back a dark growl. “I’ll repair anything that manages to breakdown naturally,” he adds after a moment.

“Can I call?” Lucifer’s sunk low in his seat like a sullen teenager, arms crossed over his chest as he peruses his nails.

Aziraphale considers Crowley, letting him answer. “No,” Crowley offers softly after a moment.

“No spells or summons, either,” Aziraphale adds and Lucifer rolls his eyes with a sigh.

“You’re a demon, I-we may need to contact you at some point,” Lucifer gestures sharply.

“Then write,” Aziraphale sneers unkindly.

“Fine. Fine,” Lucifer grumbles. “I agree, officiate it,” he waves dismissively at Ruth. She makes a displeased hum, but pushes the contract towards Crowley. He licks his forefinger and thumb before drawing his sigil into it and rubs the hellfire that lingers on his fingers afterwards off. Aziraphale delicately draws two sigils next to Crowley’s signature, and shakes his head a little of the bright light that suffuses his eyes afterwards. Lucifer doodles his sigil out languidly, and considers the contract with hooded eyes for a few minutes as hellfire slowly hisses and spits into nothingness on his fingertip.

“You still talk to the antichrist,” Lucifer says. A statement, not a question. He continues to stare at the contract with brown eyes that glimmer at sulfuric yellow.

Crowley shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

“Is he well?” Lucifer looks up at Crowley with a plain, unreadable look on his face.

“Well enough,” Crowley coughs, looking away from him.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to deal with that one without us. That’s between you and your—him,” Aziraphale hems, rocking his shoulders a little.

“Hmm,” Lucifer considers the table with dark eyes, and Crowley very vaguely remembers moments of stillness like this from before he left. They usually predicated great banquets of torture or unreasonable demands and incredible pain. It’s hard in the moment to remember that for once, that’s not in his future and he shivers uncontrollably.

“If that’s all, then I suppose I should start… leaving you alone,” the King of Hell smirks darkly at no one, and sweeps out of the room.

* * *

They retire to the bookshop, and for a few days, Aziraphale thinks that perhaps Crowley’s just becoming more resilient with the care and support he’s been slowly coming to accept lately. He even lets Crowley head back down to the cottage to direct the new contractors alone, all the while unknowingly ignoring Crowley’s cool roboticism. It can be hard to spot changes in the people closest to us, even when we know them so well and even when we’re _looking_ for it. Aziraphale’s a little jangled himself by the entire affair, but he _should’ve_ noticed.

When Aziraphale joins Crowley for the next weekend, at a different hotel this time, Crowley curls into a sobbing ball in his lap, and he learns of what Lucifer did to the other creators. There’s only thirty or so left, though there’d been fifty after the Fall, and at least a hundred before then. At some point Lucifer had grown tired of waiting for his draconic white whale, and decided to see if he could gall others into reforming him into an angel, or the closest that he could become without ascending. The ones that didn’t escape into becoming something else, like Lethe or Phelgethon, wound up dead by either Lucifer’s hand or their own.

“I’m ‘bandoning ‘em. Again,” he wails.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale smooths his hand over his brow. “You’re taking care of yourself.” _Finally_ going unsaid. “You aren’t responsible for them, and you aren’t responsible for Lucifer’s actions, either.”

* * *

Crowley agrees to start seeing Leonard every few weeks after that. He tries and fails to feel like he’s still a perfectly serviceable demon and not a completely useless sop.

“Toothless. Domesticated. Put a leash and collar on me, angel, I’m just a lapdog at this point,” Crowley grumbles over dinner one night, nibbling on a potato wedge.

“You’re still a demon, dear,” Aziraphale chuckles. “Just as tempting as always,” he purrs, “Perhaps I might wear the collar this time, though?”

Crowley burns red and dinner ends earlier than expected, but neither of them complain.


	18. Chapter 18

“I don’t see why you want me to meet her,” Crowley grumbles, poking at a bit of crust on his plate. It’s Wednesday and he’s sitting in a tiny café in London with Aziraphale savoring pies. Crowley’s picked up minor temptations again, bringing traffic to a standstill at inopportune moments, drawing the difficulty curve of a mobile game such that you simply _have_ to buy microtransactions to continue. Leonard tells him it’s good, he needs something to do with himself that’s not self-destructive, as if he’s forgotten how many of Crowley’s antics have fucked him over in the long run. It makes him feel a little less… toothless, helps him build up the walls and scaffolding towards being a person again.

“Crowley, she’s passed the first and second interviews, I think she might be it,” Aziraphale gestures his hand holding a fork like he’s holding a conductor’s baton, face scrunched in pleasure as he slowly chews.

“What, am I the third interview then?” Crowley smirks, and Aziraphale gives him a repressive look which so clearly states, _obviously_.

* * *

Crowley honestly never met many angels Before the fall, and he hasn’t really had to deal with many angels besides Aziraphale After. But Aziraphale wants him to do this, so he dresses in his demonic best (so much black) and settles into one of Aziraphale’s preferred armchairs. It’s a wingback, tartan, and hardly imposing on most days. With how Crowley reclines in it with a steaming cup though, it appears as an imposing throne and he the mismatched sovereign of this bookish domain.

The angel that Aziraphale leads into the bookstore is not quite what he’s expecting. He’s expecting a stiff-back, starched suits, gold flecks and a sense of too many wings shuttered in the Other Space. To put it simply, he’s expecting something like an archangel, and this angel is _not_ an archangel. She’s probably on an even height with Crowley, and her hair would naturally be a honey gold, but for some reason it’s currently silvered through the temples and spun silver throughout her crown-braid. There’s stark, dark branches woven into her hair, and it appears that there’s little buds beginning to form on some of the branches, though Crowley can’t quite place what sort of tree or bush the branches are from. Perhaps cherry, he’s thinking as Aziraphale leads her back, rushing her a little past the queer and women’s lit section with a nervous laugh.

“Ah,” the angel says upon seeing him, and it’s not just her hair that’s aged like a human’s. She has deep crows’ feet, but they’re softening somehow. He’s not sure why he knows that. “Anthony J. Crowley,” she bows lightly, and Crowley obliges her by tilting his head.

“Demeter,” he sets aside his drink to stand and properly shake her hand. When their hands meet and clasp, there’s an otherworldly shift which he hasn’t felt in _eons_. It was always incredibly dizzying when he and Cassiel touched because of this, a little overwhelming to be honest. Two beings so innately tied to time tend to do funny things to it if they get in close proximity to one another, and it only makes sense that the angel who’s taken the name of the goddess of the seasons would have an intricate link to him.

“L-lovely to meet you,” Crowley manages tightly, withdrawing his hand a mite too fast, and Demeter makes a soft noise and leans towards him as if to grab his hand back.

“Aziraphale tells me you’ve tutored before?” Crowley asks tightly, practically lunging back into the wingback, and picking up his cup like a shield. Demeter blinks blearily at him for a moment before shaking herself and settling into the armchair that Aziraphale has set across from his preferred one.

“Y-yes,” Demeter swallows.

“Would you like tea, dear?” Aziraphale asks, peering curiously between the two of them.

“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you,” Demeter nods, smiling a little at him and adjusting her braid with a hand. Her mouth opens a few times, considering his entirely black ensemble and the odd gold ring on his right hand. He sips his cup and gives her the space to process, sadly pretty familiar with angels and other creatures being boggled by the fact that a _demon_ might have been the creator of something so integral to the universe.

“I, yes, I’ve tutored, but not for a few centuries,” Demeter manages after a minute, gratefully accepting the cup that Aziraphale offers. “I spent some time in Underhill, trying to teach them how to maintain the seasons more sensically there,” she frowns at nothing and Crowley chuckles softly.

“I think they prefer it being out of time, honestly,” he says softly and her eyes linger on him for a moment too long, seeming to say: _Did you do that for them, then? _He looks away from her inquiring look with a soft smirk, _as if_.

“I’m afraid Urnnie has no experience tutoring,” Crowley offers.

“We’re not going to require that you two tutor in tandem, but you should communicate at least. Make sure you’re not undoing each other’s work,” Aziraphale sniffs. A careful piece of their contracts ensures that their tutors are aware that they’re not trying to create a second version of themselves, another matched set, because _goodness_, that would be a PR disaster.

“Of course,” Demeter nods softly, and when she smiles like that, she appears ages younger. She’ll be a maiden in a few months before crumpling back to a crone, and well, that’ll be interesting for Adam to see, won’t it?

“Maybe you could help Adam iron out that microclimate business,” Aziraphale adds as the silence draws out, Demeter and Crowley assessing one another behind their cups. Crowley laughs dryly, and Demeter frowns at Aziraphale.

“He makes the weather _perfect_, all the time,” Crowley waves. “Unconscious, a lot of his magic is unconscious, so part of your work will just be making him aware of it, and helping him control it.”

“Oh,” Demeter tilts her head. “Well, he does sound like he’s within my purview then,” she gives him a relieved smile and Crowley frowns curiously. “Oh, faerie princes and princesses are a lot like that. More power that they know what to do with and it just sort of leaks out.”

Crowley glances at Aziraphale who gives him a little smirk of _see, told you so_. As if Crowley doubted that Aziraphale would choose someone suitable.

The rest of the afternoon is spent working out how they’re going to set up the curriculum, how often they’re going to meet with Adam, when and where Urnnie and Demeter should meet for the first time, and what they should say if asked by someone from Upper Management.

Demeter purposefully shakes his hand again once she leaves, and Crowley lets her, though he probably shouldn’t. Chronomages were problematic with him sometimes, would glom on and not let go, desperately clawing at the gyroscope in his chest and wanting _more. _Touching Demeter is calming somehow, like sitting on a bench in St. James with Aziraphale after a long time without seeing one another. They might get along as very good friends were circumstances different.

Crowley releases her hand after a count of fifteen, desperately tucking himself back into human form as all of his variety of glamours and masking spells nearly slip away in the comfort of another beast of time. 

She squints at him, Seeing him, and Crowley frowns.

“You can’t keep that up, you know,” she says softly and Crowley scoffs lightly, shaking his head.

“You think I don’t know?” he gives her a haunted smile that clearly hits the mark as she pales and quickly looks away from the dragon sauntering under the surface.

* * *

It’s hard to believe it’s been a month since the Official Proposal, but here they are.

“It’s Pie Day,” Crowley chuckles, adjusting Aziraphale’s bowtie for him. They’re not dressing up too formally for this first civil ceremony since the only attendees will be Warlock and a handful of souls from Limbo. Warlock had stumbled into coming when he heard Crowley talking on the phone with a soul about the ceremony, and Aziraphale had explained it away airily. He’d insisted that it would be fine, they’d have a real ceremony and Warlock could come then, but the boy was a bit adamant about coming once he knew about it.

“Pie Day?” Aziraphale asks, frowning.

“Yeah, like the number?” Crowley gestures, letting Aziraphale very gently adjust his tie, careful of his sensitive neck.

“Oh, I suppose it is,” Aziraphale chuckles.

“Could’ve had it on the Ides if we’d waited a day,” Crowley smirks and Aziraphale huffs and rolls his eyes fondly at the demon.

They’re holding the ceremony on a set of crossroads near an old burial mound near dusk, as needs be to allow souls to come up from Limbo to officiate. It’s suitably spooky and foggy on this near-Spring evening, and as they walk up from the Bentley, they chuckle softly to note that Warlock has managed to drag Adam along to this as well.

“Really,” Crowley ruffles Warlock’s hair affectionately and the boy sticks his tongue out at him. He and Adam have grown close, but generally only seem to interact over text or phone. In person, they’re a bit stilted and awkward, but perhaps it’s to be expected of kids their age.

“Ready?” Crowley adjusts his glasses out of habit, although it’s dim enough here that he could go without.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale smiles as they sidle into position in front of Vikram, the soul overseeing their vows today.

Vikram most likely says the things that he’s expected to say, leading them into their vows, but Crowley doesn’t really hear it for the sudden roaring in his ears, the way that everything seems to contract and focus so that all that he can see is Aziraphale’s shining face in the dimming evening light and nothing else.

There’s a long beat of silence, and Crowley numbly remembers that he’s supposed to start.

“A-Aziraphale,” his voice cracks, _great_, “you complete-comp-complement me, in every way.” _Shit why’d it have to be words why couldn’t I just throw this up in a powerpoint and gesture at it UGH._

“Y-you bring out the best in me. Awfully divine of you, corrupting a demon,” he smirks nervously, drifting from the script and Aziraphale rolls his eyes fondly. “I will spend the rest of my days with you, watching over creation. I w-wish for nothing else than to be by your side.” Their hands are clasped together for this, but Crowley’s left hand draws up, unbidden, to caress Aziraphale’s cheek as he starts the next line, and Aziraphale’s smile crumples as he leans into the caress, “I will ensure that the universe spins on, if only so that I can spend the rest of eternity with you.”

Vikram nods gently at him, and after Crowley swipes his thumb over the tear on Aziraphale’s cheek, he brings his hand back down to the clasp, nervously shifting his weight on his feet. He’s the first to go because they both know he’s going to be utterly _obliterated_ by the love that Aziraphale’s about to lather him in. He wouldn’t have the composure to whimper out a single _Ngk _after what follows.

“Crowley, my love,” Aziraphale sniffs, smiling wetly, “I’m so, _so_ lucky to have you, my dear.” He hiccups a sob back, struggling to get himself back on track with a few deep breaths.

“You-you always keep pace with me, and draw me out when I need it. You’ve never been less than honest with me. About the things that count, at least,” he gives him a shy wink, and they both chuckle. “I will be by your side for the rest of the eternity, I promise, I _promise_,” he leans forward, bringing their foreheads together and Crowley gulps thickly, quivering a little as his eyes watch Aziraphale’s lips recite what still seem like impossibilities. “I-I will watch over and guard creation, as my charge, and,” he huffs a small laugh, “p-perhaps I can try to maintain the universe’s spin, with you. For us.”

Vikram doesn’t even have to say anything like _you may now kiss—_because there’s Aziraphale’s lips against his, even though he’d botched his vows surprisingly more than Crowley. They’re both crying, and there’s faint applause from the souls and the two not-entirely-human boys. They break the kiss, laughing lightly, and Vikram’s hand comes down over their clasped hands, but it’s… it’s not like the rehearsals.

It’s a wonder that Crowley doesn’t go up in smoke, fall to his knees, or go blind, to see the loving face of God regarding him and Aziraphale in that moment. It’s what you’d expect to happen to a demon in these sorts of circumstances. His knees shake, and Aziraphale is in the process of trying to push himself in front of the demon, or hold him, or prostrate himself. A lot is trying to happen in that pregnant moment of Her regard.

_That’ll do_, her voice hums in their heads, and then, in a wink which is somehow communicated through a face which is also a million faces and facades and expressions at once, she’s gone and Vikram is peering at them worriedly in her place.

“Gentlemen?” he breathes, as Crowley clings to Aziraphale and they both quiver in place. It’s not really the expected scene of post-nuptial bliss, both of them panicked and panting. They look at each other and laugh nervously at first, but then Aziraphale impulsively grabs Crowley and holds him as sobs are suddenly rended from his angelic core.

_Six thousand years of silence and **now** you pop up. What am I to you? Why now? Did you **plan **this? All this suffering and you couldn’t have communicated one iota you insufferable—_

They both have complicated relationships with their maker. Crowley slows time and holds his other half, his _husband_, and ooh, that’s got a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it? Their union is ordained by God even, what a crazy thing. It’s more than Crowley ever expected of Her, to be honest, to ever be respected enough to even be looked at again as a… well, not a person, but a Being, an Entity that exists.

Aziraphale is terrified that the grief he feels will cause him to-to-to… it overshadows his love, his joy, his gratitude that he gets Crowley for eternity, that God has said, “Yes, this is what I wanted,” and no one gets to take this away from him. Why is he grieving? What is he grieving for? This is everything he’s wanted for _millennia_, why is he sobbing uncontrollably?

Crowley is kind, and sweet, and caring, though (as always). He kisses his crown, drags his tear- and fog-sodden form out with Adam and Warlock to get an obscene amount of pies considering the day. Banana crème, strawberry glace, key lime, pecan, pumpkin, cheesecake. They get into a long argument about whether or not cheesecake counts as a pie, and Crowley is overjoyed that this gets Aziraphale to smile, that the lines on his face ease for a brief moment.

Once the boys are seen off to their homes, they recline in the back of the bookshop with wine. Aziraphale is quivering with something strong, terror and horror and grief, and _oh is this the rainbow, **now** we’re worth your time? _He’s so angry, and bitter, and terrifyingly empty underneath it all. This was _his_ day, _their_ day, but He went and made it something else. Yes, this was probably how it was all meant to go, the whole _ceremony_ thing, but if he’d know that professing his love for the demon, knitting their lives together would cause this, _he would have done this millennia ago. _So much suffering, and for what?

“Does that offer still stand?” Aziraphale coughs, still overwrought with phlegm all these hours later.

“Hmm?” Crowley rumbles, looking slightly dozy but still distinctly watching and gauging the angel.

“Take me somewhere else, Crowley. Please. Anywhere, I need—_please_,” Aziraphale crawls towards him and clings to his legs. _Remind me why we did this, remind me why I should have faith in anything but you._ Not the most romantic reason for a honeymoon, restoring one’s faith, but Crowley just smiles sadly at him as he caresses his face.

“Anywhere you want to go.”

* * *

The first leg of the honeymoon goes through America. There’s food, surprisingly passable wines and spirits, and a delightful amount of sex that seems to keep the shadows out of Aziraphale’s eyes.

Crowley deigns to retrofit the Bentley as an electric vehicle, if only so that he can annoy Americans with his obnoxious British car with its obnoxious British steering and now its obnoxious demonic eco-friendliness. Oh, and there’s finally _seatbelts_, he’s finally relented. Aziraphale spends a month teasing him in the Bentley, kissing him silly then pulling off at the worst moments to remark about the state of the car, how if only there were _some_ concessions to safety, he might feel more comfortable about doing this sort of thing.

“You’re a manipulative bitch,” Crowley spits as Aziraphale sashays away towards their motel. He’s so hard that he’s seeing red and the Bentley is currently growing about twenty sets of seat belts, lap belts, air bags, sand bags, kid-safe locks, and he’s going to have reign it all in tomorrow.

“I’m an angel, darling,” Aziraphale coos, and drapes himself suggestively against the bonnet of the Bentley and Crowley lunges but gets hung up on the _fucking _seatbelts. The growl that comes from within the car is far from human.

“Come along, it shouldn’t be that hard, just click it open,” Aziraphale’s suddenly next to his side of the car as Crowley is near-to crying in frustration as he paws at the nylon straps and plastic clips. The angel’s deft fingers undo the five seatbelts clipped around Crowley’s chest and waist and suddenly they’re in their motel room _thank god_.

“D-did I push you too hard?” Aziraphale pants as Crowley’s very clawed fingers tremble, undoing the buttons on his cardigan.

“_Yes_,” Crowley growls, and has to stop and just pant over the angel because he’s so far from human and while they’re getting better at warding against his power scaring people, it’s better not to chance it. His power spills and drips over all the time now, it’s terrifying.

Leonard says it’s natural, he’s healing and part of that is just… being himself, being in the moment as himself and not socketing himself away in a lockbox far from reach.

“I’m sorry, dear, you should’ve—”

“If,” Crowley takes a deep breath, arms shaking as he holds himself over Aziraphale. He’s managed to strip himself out of his cardigan, shirt, and pants and is very delicately undoing Crowley’s very, very, _very_ overextended skinny jeans. “If y’hadn’t stopped. ‘d be fine. Don’t stop,” he sinks his face to Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the words come out in a rush, “don’t stop, don’t tell me to stop, don’t leave.” 

Aziraphale sees the tension in his shoulders, and hears the question before it’s even asked, _but is it really alright? Is this what you want?_

“Yes, I want this,” he punctuates it with a long, firm stroke along Crowley’s silk-clad length. “I’m sorry I pushed you too hard,” he purrs into Crowley’s throat, kissing along the underside of his jaw. “You know you can let go with me, darling,” his voice is dark and wanting and Crowley shudders and keens above him. _Yes, but it’s fucking **terrifying**, will it ever not be terrifying?_

He’s spent eons learning control, fine-tuning willpower, pumping the brakes and learning to slow or increase his speed to match everyone else, to blend in. He doesn’t even realize that’s why he’s having these issues, why he’s so terrified of being able to perform in bed, not that it’s a performance, it shouldn’t be a performance (it is, though).

They’re in a sauna in Montana, the snow outside making the heat inside that much crisper and inviting. They’ve been massaged into putty all day, but Aziraphale sees more lines of tension in his body, hidden behind a small obfuscation charm on his chest perhaps. He rubs up and down his neck, into his shoulders, kneads into the knobs where his wings might pop out. Crowley is so relaxed that it’s honestly embarrassing that he’s hard, but Aziraphale’s fingers linger on his sharp hipbones and he can feel his smile against his temple.

“Sorry,” Crowley mumbles. He’s not sure why he says it. Aziraphale has the libido of… well, something ethereal that would like to jump him absolutely every second of their existence. Crowley might have that sort of libido too, if he was less anxious all the time, less burdened by doubt.

“May I?” Aziraphale asks, drawing his hand closer to his prick.

“Wh-whatever y’like,” Crowley mumbles, “green, ‘s green.”

Aziraphale sinks into the tub behind him, kissing his shoulder and lets his hand languidly stroke down his cock. He makes a soft, interested noise, because it has been roughly three to four thousand years since he’s had a cock, and Crowley’s cock is decidedly different than his had been, but stroking him like this, from behind, is so reminiscent of it. Crowley’s cock is longer, a little more curved towards the stomach, and circumcised.

“Y’know,” he lets his words drip down Crowley’s shoulder, lets his left hand lazily stroke up and down the demon’s relaxed thigh. “Y’know I never thought to ask,” he brings his fingers up to Crowley’s lips and the demon obligingly takes them in, relaxed and pliant against him as he sucks and wets them.

“Mmm?” Crowley asks, letting his head loll back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder as he reclaims his fingers from the demon’s mouth. He swirls the spit-slick fingers around the head of his cock, making his breath hitch.

“Did you actually get circumcised?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley’s hips lift gently up without any prompting from him at all.

“Nnn?” Crowley whimpers, and Aziraphale chuckles, and extracts a few needy, wet noises from the demon’s throat with one-two-three quick, hard thrusts of his fist around him.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks again, drawing meaningless sigils down the underside of his cock as Crowley pants.

“N-no…” Crowley pants, “Nnn… ah, fuck, uh—” His hips jerk up helplessly again and Aziraphale withdraws his hand and nips his ear teasingly. “C-came that way,” Crowley offers, hands cramping around Aziraphale’s knees that are popping out on either side of his waist.

“I-I mean, not. Not originally,” Crowley sighs as Aziraphale rubs up and down his stomach, apparently done with teasing his cock for now. “Originally I was… uh, sort of like you, I guess,” he gestures and Aziraphale quirks his sharp chin on Crowley’s shoulder, making the demon hiss and chuckle.

“Here, relax darling,” Aziraphale places a long, wet kiss to this neck and shifts in the tub so that he’s straddling his lap. “_Relax_,” Aziraphale taps his taut shoulders. He’s getting better at reading Crowley’s form, and isn’t that lovely? (_Terrifying). _Crowley takes a deep breath and Aziraphale lets his fingers doodle up and down the taut cord along the back of his neck. “Color?”

“G-green, please, keep going,” Crowley pants and nods, and Aziraphale smiles indulgently at him.

“Such a good boy,” he purrs as he rocks his hips forward and with the expertise earned from only a few months, manages to slide Crowley into him without even using his hands. They both sigh in pleasure as they _fit_, even after all this time the beauty of _yes, it’s you, it’s me, we’re together and this is so right_ knocks the breath from them.

The water of the tub sloshes treacherously with their rocking even though Crowley’s only drawn it up to his hips, nothing he could potentially fall asleep in. He irritably pulls the plug with a wave of his hand nonetheless.

“You’re tensing,” Aziraphale whispers, leaning forehead-to-forehead and rolling his hips in the most seductive figure-eight in the world.

“Y-yeah,” Crowley babbles, _yeah don’t stop I mean what, what, did you say something_? “Y-yeah, thanks,” he huffs and rolls his shoulders back, sinking back and watching the way that the gold of Aziraphale’s scars glints in the yellow light of the bathroom. _Mindfulness, stay in the moment with him, don’t get lost_, snippets of Leonard’s voice flittering at him. _I love you, I’ll take anything you give me_, Aziraphale just keeps repeating it at him, and he will. He’s certainly shown proof positive of that, with Crowley grinding out endless orgasms from the angel and then frustratedly storming off after his body coils so tight that he can’t squeak out anything _close_ to an orgasm. Can’t even _pretend_ like he could before.

_Sorry, sorry, angel, it’ll, it’ll come back, I swear_. _I swear, I’ll make it happen, anything for you_.

He leaves before Aziraphale can even say _no, you shouldn’t have to, just-just, Crowley!_

“I love you,” Aziraphale kisses him, and Crowley melts into the moment. “I love you,” he pants and he’s getting close. Crowley should help him over, but his hands are preoccupied with holding Aziraphale up, and keeping himself from sliding down the slick edge of the tub. He’s only got two hands, unlike _some_ people.

Aziraphale’s hands are in his hair, one clutching his chest, and Crowley wants to say _touch yourself, please, you deserve this_, but his lips and voice are currently a little busy, he’s making a surprising amount of noise and even with the cool of the air on his skin after the water in the tub’s slunk away, he’s deliciously warm, deliciously comfortable.

“_Fuck_,” he growls into Aziraphale’s mouth, eyes going wide in shock as he is absolutely and completely startled by the orgasm that rattles out of him, Aziraphale still grinding and bobbing in his lap. It’s been a week since he’d grumpily stared at the stars, willing his hard cock to soften since his body wouldn’t let him off, wouldn’t uncoil for him. _Is it really so much to ask? An orgasm once every couple of days or so for him? I’m not even toying with refractory periods, I just want like, one. Singular. That too much? _Apparently.

He’s languid and slippery in the tub, and he cries into Aziraphale’s shoulder as his body _keeps going_. “Fuck, I love you, _fuck_,” it’s not stopping, hips jerking upwards into Aziraphale’s perfect heat, and _Christ_, if all it took was relaxing his shoulders, he’d do this for _eternity_.

“T-thank you,” Aziraphale pants above him once the shudders are over, and he’s softening slowly.

“Fffor what?” Crowley feels like he needs to drink eighty gallons of water. His hair is still damp and he’s got soap between his toes, and he should definitely be hydrated with all the mountain spring water they keep plying him with.

“For being here. With me,” Aziraphale kisses him softly, and it clicks like a key in a lock. _Oh. It’s just that easy._ _That’s what they mean by don’t get lost. Huh_.

* * *

Crowley sits in on conferences about block-chain and game design, holds Aziraphale’s hand while sitting through conferences on the human condition, the beauty of charity and humanism in this new ultra-connected world.

_This is why. This is what we’re protecting, love, _he hums as they toast together atop the Space Needle after a long day of letting Aziraphale bless every single person at a hospice, hundreds of years too late for the plagues they’d truly wanted to cure, but it’s enough. Enough for now.

Crowley might say, _go ahead, get it out of your system_, _I’ll be here, I’ll always be here to catch you when you need it. _

Crowley is far less fussed by meeting God for the first time since the fall, and he’s honestly a little surprised since he’s supposed to be the dramatic, damaged one. He’s known what She’s like since before the fall, though, and he’d had a tingling sense of… dread and anticipation that night. He’d known _something_ was going to happen, and he’d hoped it was just you know, _being married_. That it was God appearing and blessing their union, well, better than realizing that holy matrimony was something that would _kill_ him, which he’d been a little worried about.

_Have faith in this, have faith in humanity with me, we can save this, we can do this together._

Shifting the focus from God’s plan to what they’ve always done helps. It’s what Aziraphale had led with on Valentine’s Day, and it’s what begins to draw him back from trembling silence, leaving Crowley to lead the meandering conversations, babbling at the wine tours about their recent wedding, and having all the silly Americans fawn over their _adorable _accents.

They meander down a cobblestone street, and Crowley plucks down a ruby-red apple with something mischievous in his gait. He juggles it, tosses it and toys with it until Aziraphale grabs his arm and holds out his hand as if to take it from him with an entreating smile. Crowley offers the apple, and Aziraphale kisses his knuckles and holds his eyes as he bites into the succulent flesh. Crowley bites into the other side with mirth in his eyes.

_I am yours, and you are mine._

They get their wings out, fly over the vast flatlands and Crowley may, cackling, abduct a cow or two to pass the time, leave arcane crop circles in his wake. They have so much time now, time that he can caress and hold, time that Aziraphale can sob into his chest, time that Crowley can curl into a ball and bawl.

Aziraphale insists that they follow the trail of the old Patagonia Express (completely extinct, but they’re not the only ones following the dusty and muddy trail), and their color starts to come back. They cross the ocean and wend their way through Asia, even through India (that bar is long-gone, paved over a thousand times or more) and down into Africa.

By the time they’re in Italy, sipping limoncello, it’s nearly Adam’s fourteenth birthday and _oops_. Time flies when you’re immortal, and in love, and have _millennia_ of love and longing and yearning (and trauma) to process.

They stumble back into London, drunk on each other and it’s hard to believe that they’ve _done it_, that they’ve won, they get to have this not just for those two years of a honeymoon, but for _forever_.

The cottage is done. Been done for about a year and a half, actually. It’s beautiful, and they spend a few weeks moving in, arranging the furniture (wearing in the furniture.) The bookstore stands, and the plants unfurl from their dormant state at Crowley’s return. The piles of mail are daunting, and tucked within them are a handful of things from Limbo.

Apparently, somehow, their new status has accidentally placed them as mediators in Limbo. It’s not all that bad from the look of it, almost exactly what they used to do, sit in on trials, offer their opinions on events as they happen. They’ve been remiss in their duties, but well, not like they’re particularly well known for being good at their jobs after all this time. Maybe let people know next time you’re gonna take a sabbatical, though. (They had to expect it though, didn’t they? Long time coming.)

* * *

Adam at fourteen, on the cusp of adulthood, is so _angelic_ it hurts to look at him. Like a painting of a very handsome, very Luciferian cherub. Warlock at fourteen is dark and dusky, still a little underdeveloped, but his new horn-rimmed glasses give him a confidence beyond his years. Demeter and Urnnie look at the two of them, as they’d accidentally acquired a _second_ student when Crowley and Aziraphale disappeared, with so much pride in their eyes.

The Real Wedding might get put off forever, if Crowley doesn’t make a dark joke while very drunk on red wine.

“Ssssometimes itss—sseems, _seems_ too good t’ be true,” he slurs. “Like ‘re just waiting for the final act, ‘The Lovers are Found Out and _die tragically_.’”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale glowers at him, “Crowley, no.” He’s decided they’re never going to see another Shakespearean tragedy, at least not one of the ones with the star-crossed lover trope, ever again. Afterwards it’s all that the demon can talk about: _we don’t get happy endings. Except I guess we do. For a little while, heh_.

They finally settle on just having it on the anniversary of the first one, March 14th. At first, they nearly hold it on the cliff and beachside next to their cottage, but as the guest list balloons it quickly becomes clear that that’s not going to work. They rent out a small park in town for the weekend with a slew of small tents.

It’s breezy and warm this time with the sun beating down on them, delightfully distant from their last wedding. One of the tents has two tables overladen with pies, many of them homemade by their friends or gifted by restaurants they’ve been keeping in business for decades.

There are vows of course, but they’re more generic this time, _carefully_ so. Crowley seriously considers warding the park against deific beings, but strangely, ends up forgetting about it. Sometimes when Aziraphale is staring out the back door of the cottage at the sea with a mug of something steaming in his hands, his newly gray, but still very angelic wings fluttering in the twilight, he just… lets go.

_We get to have this. Let yourself live, Anthony J. Crowley. _

_Oh, and go snog your husband._

He does. He does and he does and—

They live. And they learn. And the universe will keep spinning on and on for the love of two eternal enemies—entities, two sides of one coin, who will be there, together, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I fell off the schedule I had! This has been done for a bit, but I really _really_ wanted it to be perfect, but you know? It won't be and that's just fine. 
> 
> Thanks for staying along for the ride. There's a few one shots set in this world that I'll spin out, plus I'm not done with Good Omens either, I have so many things in my drafts that its _daunting_. 
> 
> Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed (but I am so socially anxious that it will likely take me time to get back to you, sorry, I read and love your comments nonetheless! <3)
> 
> ETA 7/4/20: Hey, so, I guess I should addendum to this. I kind of seriously burnt myself out on Good Omens writing this? It turns out denying yourself sleep and the like isn't a great way to make you want to go back and revisit something. I'm doing better, I got too excited being able to write after a decade of antidepressant fueled creativity-suppression. I still have some faint ideas related to Good Omens, but it's going to be a bit of a time before I touch them again. 
> 
> I appreciate your comments. I can't really read or interact with this work anymore because of all that burn-out stuff, but I'm keeping it up here because some people seem to really find it helpful/interesting. Thanks for coming along the ride, and good luck on your journey. 
> 
> I'm probably always gonna be on [tumblr](http://aezlo.tumblr.com), if you want to drop me a line.


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